‘Disturb her!’ Dimitri had bellowed, used to getting his own way.
‘That’s out of the question,’ replied the secretary.
‘Disturb her!’ Dimitri thundered a second time.
‘I’m sure Miz Fern will return your call when she is able,’ retorted the secretary and hung up.
Dimitri was so furious he called back immediately, only to reach Horace.
‘Francesca’s busy at the moment,’ said Horace, in his usual worried whine. ‘I’ll get her to phone you as soon as she can.’
Dimitri had spent the day in his suite waiting for her call. It never came.
He was incensed. In all his dealings with women, nobody ever dared to treat him the way Francesca Fern did.
Now he was ready to attend her gala, and anger coursed through his veins. He was not some miserable fan. If Francesca thought she could treat him in this fashion and get away with it, she had better think again.
* * *
Lucky called Matt at the last minute. ‘You’ll have to escort me to this thing tonight,’ she said with a sigh of annoyance. ‘Gino’s taking Grace Kelly.’
‘Grace is in Monaco.’
‘Someone should tell dear old Susan. Maybe she’ll stop the masquerade.’
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘Oh Matt, you’re so perceptive – right on the dime.’
‘She’s a very nice lady.’
‘Hitler only had one ball, but he could charm ’em too.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Forget it. Pick me up at six-thirty.’
Matt decided he had a problem. Escorting Lucky Santangelo had never figured in his scheme of things. He had hoped to see Jess later. Not that she ever wanted to see him again. She had told him so, in no uncertain terms. Just because he had tried to jump her bones.
He shook his head. The sexual revolution seemed to have eluded poor Jess. Silly girl. But he was not prepared to give up yet. Now he was supposed to drop everything and be at Lucky Santangelo’s beck and call. Why?
Because she’s the boss, that’s why.
* * *
Francesca Fern clicked talon red nails. ‘Emeralds,’ she commanded.
Horace sprang toward her travelling Vuitton jewel case and found the requested gems.
Francesca clicked again. ‘Jourdan diamante shoes.’
Horace raced for the closet and located the size ten evening shoes. Lovingly he placed them upon his wife’s large feet.
Francesca arose, clipped a huge emerald to an outsize earlobe and snapped, ‘Perfume.’
Horace obliged with a liberal spray of Joy.
‘Let us go,’ sighed Francesca. ‘The peasants are waiting.’
Chapter Thirteen
Mr Wrong wore a white silk tuxedo, a plastic smile, and several gold bracelets. He was a Spanish recording star who – according to his PR – drove women crazy. His accent was enough to drive anyone crazy. Had he not been halfway famous, Olympia would have disregarded him totally. As it was they were at adjoining tables in New York’s Regines on Park Avenue, and Olympia knew the platinum-blonde English woman he was with – a sort of international fixer-upper – who adored putting the right people together. So before long they all joined up – Olympia’s group, Mr Spanish Recording Star, and his friend. His name was Vitos Felicidade, and by the time he rocked Olympia in his arms on the dance floor, he knew exactly who she was – thanks to his blonde ladyfriend who excitedly filled him in, then told him – in Spanish (good international fixer-uppers always speak more than one language) to go for it. Both he and Olympia sensed interesting but limited possibilities.
‘You ’ave a wondeefool ’air,’ he murmured, pressing what appeared to be his idea of a hard-on between her thighs.
Olympia allowed desire to run rampant, hoped he was better hung than he appeared, and said, ‘So do you.’ Although she wasn’t quite sure whether he meant she had wonderful hair or a wonderful air about her. Since she had both, she didn’t much care.
‘I fluuuck yew beauuuutifully,’ he purred with a winning smile. Pure plastic.
I hope you fluuuck better than you speak English, she thought as she discreetly slid her hand down and felt for his cock. An encouraging rub and they were away.
Outside the club the lurking paparazzi jumped to attention. Olympia Stanislopoulos and Vitos Felicidade. Together! More than together! They jostled for position to capture the coupling of the two celebrities.
‘This is so boring!’ complained Olympia.
‘Booooring,’ agreed Vitos, lifting his head so there was no chance of a bad angle. ‘We take my car or yours?’
Two chauffeurs stood by their respective limousines.
‘Who cares?’ sighed Olympia, throwing herself into the back of his. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘I hate these evenings,’ Lucky confided to Dimitri. ‘They make me want to scream and run naked down a beach someplace. Y’know what I mean?’
Dimitri regarded the black-eyed girl without a flicker of interest. He wished, quite frankly, that she would be quiet. He just wanted to concentrate on Francesca. Holding court at the top table like the Queen of England.
And he was not seated at the top table. He, Dimitri Stanislopoulos, was sitting at the next table, the grandest insult of all.
Lucky waited for his reply, which was not forthcoming. Silence reigned. Screw him. If he didn’t want to make conversation she could take a hint. She was just trying to be polite because it was her hotel, he was a big gambler, and she could see he was pissed as hell about the seating arrangements. She wasn’t exactly thrilled herself. Daddy and the widow at table numero uno with the star, her seedy husband, and a clutch of major celebrities. Francesca’s secretary had organized the seating arrangements. Badly, Lucky thought. She wished she hadn’t come – who needed this shit?
Matt, sitting on her other side, seemed to be enjoying himself. He was surrounded by friends and acquaintances from Hollywood where he had spent many happy working years. A fine escort he was. What had she expected – Al Pacino? She was trapped between the two dullest men in the room. Matt Traynor and Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Some winning combination.
Thanks a lot, Gino. Is this what my life has become?
She reached for her champagne glass and signalled for a waiter to refill it. Getting smashed was the only way to get through this evening.
* * *
Gino observed Susan in action. It was the first time he had seen her do her stuff surrounded by the elite of show business. She knew how to handle herself all right. Not one wrong move.
How would it be if he was married to a woman like Susan? He was too old to keep whoring around, one woman by his side and in his bed would suit him nicely.
He watched her chiselled profile as she chatted quietly to Horace Fern. After Maria he had never thought he would marry again. Dear sweet Maria . . . dead twenty-three years . . .
Surely he had waited long enough?
He glanced across at Lucky, sitting at the next table. How would she take it? She would hate it. But she would get used to it. She would have to.
* * *
It was a long night. A night of speeches, performances, and tributes. The television cameras whirred, and Francesca Fern blossomed. She played grande dame to the hilt. Francesca knew how to milk an evening.
Later, when the TV crew had left, and the guests began to thin out, Francesca graciously did the rounds. She stopped next to Dimitri, bent to peck him on the cheek, and husked, ‘So generous of you to be here tonight. Your gesture is much appreciated.’ Theatrically she posed next to him, while her personal photographer captured the shot.
He gripped her wrist so hard she almost cried out. ‘What is this charade?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper. ‘How dare you treat me this way. What game are you playing?’
She managed a fixed smile, while hissing fiercely, ‘Let go of me, you filthy animal. I heard all about you and Norma Valentine.
Don’t think you can have us both, because you cannot. I will not be humiliated in such a way.’
Norma Valentine. He almost laughed aloud. Norma Valentine was an English film star he had met in the South of France. She had been brought to his yacht a week previously by a Greek business associate and she had stayed the night. One night only. She meant nothing to him. ‘I was in her company once,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t even like her.’
‘Ah, but you liked her enough to fuck her. And to send her a Cartier bracelet the next day,’ Francesca said fiercely.
‘A gambling debt. She won at cards.’
‘Please, Dimitri, credit me with superior intelligence. More than you – for I am telling you – if you can sleep with Norma Valentine, then, my God – you will never sleep with me again.’
‘You’re married,’ Dimitri objected. ‘Since when do you forbid me to sleep with anyone else?’
‘Sleep with whom you like,’ spat Francesca, her smile finally slipping. ‘Because you will no longer be sharing my bed.’ She wrenched her wrist free, and stalked off.
‘I guess the crunch is outta the cookie,’ commented Lucky, who had not been able to help overhearing, and was feeling no pain due to several more glasses of champagne.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Dimitri glared at her.
She shrugged. ‘Francesca Fern and Norma Valentine were up for the lead in Sirocco Sings fifteen years ago. Norma went on to win an Oscar for the role and make it as a movie star. FF never did a flick. They are arch enemies – it’s Hollywood trivia. How come you don’t know?’
He was outraged. ‘Were you eavesdropping on our entire conversation?’
‘Couldn’t help myself.’
‘Really!’
‘Relax – you’ll give yourself a hernia.’
‘You are a very vulgar young lady.’
‘Cut the crap, Dimitri. I’m not your daughter’s little friend anymore. And I’ve had it with you ignoring me like I don’t exist.’ She rose. ‘This is my hotel. You have been playing at my tables all week – why don’t you just loosen up and we’ll go out and get drunk. Huh? How’s that for a great idea? I need to, and you certainly do.’
He saw her for the first time. And her smouldering beauty and vibrant youth struck him as the perfect way to erase Francesca from his thoughts. Lucky Santangelo was right. No more could he dismiss her as Olympia’s little friend.
His penetrating eyes held hers. ‘So, you require a drinking partner, is that it?’
She returned his gaze, surprised to finally get his attention. ‘Yes. And you have been elected.’
‘Should I be flattered?’
She glanced over at Gino and caught him in a deep whisper with Susan. ‘Be what you like, but let’s get out of here. And fast.’
* * *
‘I had a busy life. Did a lotta things – some good, some bad. Y’know what I mean?’ Gino rubbed the faint scar on his cheek.
‘I realize you are not Billy Graham,’ Susan replied.
‘When y’come from where I do, y’gotta learn to look after yourself. Nobody does it for you.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I started out on the streets. Never had no formal education. Kinda picked up things as I went along.’
‘You’re a true survivor. Look at where you are today.’
‘Yeh. I did okay. Like I made the great American dream come true. From nothin’ I made it big.’
‘Quite an understatement.’
‘I know Presidents, politicians, mayors, civic leaders. There’s people owe me favours you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Of course.’
‘Stick with me, kiddo. I’ll show you one hell of a good life.’
‘Is this a proposal, Gino?’
‘Y’know something I think it is.’
‘I’m . . . surprised.’
‘You’re surprised? How d’you figure I feel?’
‘It’s something I’ll have to think about.’
‘So think. Who’s stoppin’ you? Think all you want. Only I’ll need an answer before I go to sleep tonight on account of the fact that I might change my mind in the mornin’.’
Susan laughed softly. ‘Gino, you’re incorrigible.’
‘Yeh? Make the most of it.’
‘I must talk to my family, my children . . .’
‘You see me askin’ Lucky’s permission?’
‘It’s not that easy . . .’
‘Make it easy – say yes.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘I said yes.’
‘Hey! I’ll be damned!’
They were in Francesca’s suite enjoying an after the event private party.
Gino leapt to his feet. ‘I got an announcement to make!’ The assorted group gave him their attention. ‘This lady and I. Susan Martino and I. Jeez! What can I tell you? We’re gettin’ married!’
* * *
Now she had his attention, Lucky found Dimitri an enjoyable drinking companion. He wasn’t Gino, but he had that certain aura – and she liked the authority of an older man. He was also strangely attractive with his shock of thick white hair, prominent nose, and penetrating eyes. The drunker she got, the more attractive he became.
Olympia’s daddy. She was having erotic thoughts about Olympia’s daddy!
He was very tall, a big man. Gino was much shorter, more wiry. Physically they couldn’t be less alike.
‘This is fun,’ Lucky said, as they roamed from bar to bar.
He was drinking ouzo, tossing it down like lemonade. But it did not seem to affect him.
He nodded. He didn’t know why, but he was enjoying himself. Francesca Fern would regret tonight. He would personally see that she regretted it for the rest of her miserable life. Nobody spurned Dimitri Stanislopoulos, least of all a cheap whore actress.
At three o’clock in the morning they found themselves in a small Greek café, surrounded by waiters coming off their shifts, and other late-night workers. Dimitri bought drinks all round, while a thin boy played the mandolin, naturally the theme from Zorba. Dimitri danced, balancing a plate on his head, and he laughed so loud that for a moment Lucky thought he might choke. Then he smashed twenty-three plates in a row, gave the smiling proprietor a thousand dollar bill, and with unspoken agreement they retired to Lucky’s penthouse apartment.
For a moment she was nervous, a kid again. She fluttered around, fixing him a drink, then going into her bathroom and holding a cold towel to her forehead.
I’m being ridiculous, she thought. What the hell is going on here?
She returned to the living room and faced him.
He said her name once, very quietly. Then without further ado he peeled the sensuous sheath of a black silk dress from her body with expert strong hands.
She felt like a swimmer about to take the plunge. Expectant, excited, ready to excel.
His hands were big, his fingers long and firm. Slowly he explored her body, brushing her skin until he hooked into her bikini panties – the only other garment she wore – and drew them down past her thighs, her calves, her ankles.
She was naked, but he remained dressed, merely loosening his bow tie.
With great care he pushed her down onto the couch, took his brandy glass, dipped his index finger into the shimmering liquid, and brought it first to the nipple of her left breast, and then to the right one.
The liquor stung, but only for a second. With hardly a pause, he started to suck it from her, making her sigh with pleasure. She threw her arms behind her head and stretched luxuriously. He cupped her breasts together and flicked his tongue across both nipples.
‘Get your clothes off,’ she murmured urgently.
He laughed. ‘Such impatience!’
‘Get ’em off, Dimitri. I mean now.’
Keeping both hands on her breasts he traced his tongue down her body.
She writhed with excitement. Maybe I’m drunk, she thought, but this guy certainly has a great touch. Or mayb
e it’s been too long between pit stops. She smiled with secret laughter.
He opened her thighs by pushing his head between them. ‘I . . . want . . . to . . . feel . . . your . . . body . . .’ she murmured. ‘Please. I’m . . . asking . . . nicely . . .’
His tongue, like his fingers, was thick, slow moving, and experienced.
‘Ooooh . . . yes . . .’ she moaned. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes.’ Her legs parted even more as she felt the tenseness of the past months building up, preparing for release, getting ready to explode.
He paused to flavour his tongue with brandy while his hands continued to work on her breasts.
She felt the sting of the alcohol, the expertise of his fingers, and the strength of his tongue.
‘Oh, God, Dimitri! Oh God! This is soooo great. So utterly fantastic. Ohhhhh . . .’
She hit the plateau. Hard. And it was worth waiting for.
He buried his head between her legs and enjoyed every hot throbbing moment.
Chapter Fifteen
Jess found out nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Oh yes. She had found out that Matt Traynor had a constant erection, talked a lot, and thought he was God’s gift.
Had he honestly believed she would fall for his very thin-on-the-ground charms? Had he really imagined she would jump between his brown striped sheets like all the rest?
She actually had to fight him off. Do battle. And she was only five feet tall against his five eleven or more. It had been some struggle. If she hadn’t resorted to slamming him in the balls with her elbow she would probably still be there.
And when she got home at some ungodly hour, she found Wayland entertaining a group of scruffy friends who were eating her food, smoking her grass, and messing up her house. She really let fly, and when roused she had some temper.
Wayland got excited – unusual for him, and left with his friends, only to return at seven a.m. so stoned he couldn’t even speak.