“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Denver said, realizing that her words were a cliché. But what else could one say at a time like this? “It must be devastating for you. Is there anything I can do?”
“No. Thanks for asking, though,” Lucky replied. “We’ve got everything covered.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Um … I can’t seem to contact Bobby,” Denver ventured. “I thought he might be with you?”
Oh God! Lucky thought. She doesn’t know. And I guess I’m the one who’s supposed to fill her in. “Listen, Denver,” she said evenly. “I hate to be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Denver asked, experiencing a surge of alarm.
“Bobby is still in Chicago. Actually, he’s stuck in jail.”
“Excuse me?” Denver exclaimed, her heart skipping a beat. “Are you serious? What happened?”
The last thing Lucky felt like doing was informing Bobby’s girlfriend that he’d been arrested for murder. “I’m sorry but I can’t get into it now,” she said quickly. “There’s so much going on here. I have a lawyer friend who’s dealing with the situation. Danny will give you her number.”
Handing the phone over to Danny, she left it with him. Then she called Beverly to get an update.
“I’m on my way to meet with the DA right now,” Beverly said. “It looks like a setup to me. I’m hoping to get the charges dropped altogether. If not that, at least a fast bail hearing.”
“Tell me exactly what this is about,” Lucky said.
Beverly obliged, repeating everything Bobby had told her.
“Jesus Christ!” Lucky exclaimed, and, like Bobby, it immediately occurred to her that the two things could be connected. Gino’s murder, and Bobby getting set up. Lennie was right; the entire family needed protection. “How’s he doing?” she asked.
“He’s holding up,” Beverly replied. “I’m afraid I had to tell him about Gino.”
“Oh God!” Lucky sighed, filled with sadness at the thought of Bobby locked up and alone, hearing about Gino with no one to turn to. “You’ve got to get him out of there, Bev. He needs to be here with me and the family.”
“I’m trying,” Beverly assured her.
“If you think it will help, I can get on a plane,” Lucky offered. “I can be there in a few hours.”
“It’s better if I keep you informed. There’s nothing you can do here.”
“Okay, I guess. If you say so. Please tell Bobby that we’re all thinking of him.”
“Will do.”
Lucky put down her phone, angry and puzzled. What was going on? Why were terrible things happening? And wasn’t it true that bad things always happened in threes? Was there something else to come?
A shudder of apprehension enveloped her. Where was Max?
Oh yes, Max had mentioned she was on her way to Saint-Tropez. But why hadn’t she replied to her phone calls?
Once more Lucky picked up her cell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I want to use only my first name,” Max announced, having already decided that there was no way she was going to trade on either of her parents’ fame, and the best way to do that was to lose the surnames.
“Ah, but Max Golden is such a pretty combination,” Gabriella trilled. “Santangelo too.”
“I prefer just Max,” she insisted, determined to get her own way, especially as she was feeling pretty confident that she was indeed the chosen one. It was about time she started calling the shots.
They were sitting on one of the luxurious leather couches going over the Dolcezza press release that was about to be sent out to all media before the press conference the next day.
“If that is what you wish—no Golden, no Santangelo,” Gabriella sighed, making notes with a fancy pen. “I will inform our press office.”
“And another thing,” Max said boldly. “I really hate this outfit they’ve made me wear. It’s way too big for me, and who wears jumpsuits, anyway? It’s so eighties.”
“Jumpsuits are making—how you say—a big comeback,” Gabriella said, twirling a heavy gold bracelet on her chubby wrist. “The one you have on is part of the new Dolcezza collection. Although I must admit that it does seem a little big on you.”
“A little big!” Max huffed indignantly. “Can’t you see that I’m like totally swimming in it?”
“Scusi?”
“Well, not exactly swimming, more like it’s so not my style.”
Gabriella bobbed her head and wondered why she had been put in charge of the American girl. Where were Natalia and Dante when she needed them? The two of them were supposed to be the creative force of Dolcezza, although in Gabriella’s eyes they were both useless. Natalia was obsessed with her womanizing photographer fiancé, and Dante was a dangerous drunk. Surely Alfredo should have considered putting her adult children in positions of power? But no, he’d favored his own offspring, giving them the important titles, while her three children did all the real work behind the scenes.
“So you agree?” Max said.
Gabriella wasn’t sure what she’d agreed to. This young American girl was quite bossy, unlike the former face of Dolcezza, a voluptuous Swedish model who’d had little to say about anything and jumped into bed with any man who asked. Gabriella nodded anyway.
“Cool,” Max said. “I can’t wait to get out of this outfit. It sucks.”
“Ah yes,” Gabriella said, finally realizing what she’d agreed to. “My assistant, Giulia, will take you to the sample room.” Gabriella gestured toward Giulia, a sour-faced girl lurking in the background, and fired off a stream of Italian.
“Can I pick out anything I like to wear for the photo session?” Max asked, her confidence rising.
“As long as it is from our new collection,” Gabriella said, “I see no problem.”
“Got it,” Max said, deciding that Gabriella was going to be easy to manipulate. Thank goodness she was dealing with her and not the other sister, who seemed far more formidable.
“Off you go, then,” Gabriella said, relieved to relinquish responsibility. “I will see you later.”
“Thanks,” Max said, skipping out of the room.
* * *
After making several phone calls and discovering everything she could about Bobby’s arrest, Denver took an Uber cab to the airport. Maybe Lucky felt it wasn’t necessary to fly to Chicago, but Denver had no hesitation. Being with Bobby was the right thing to do.
She’d had an unsatisfactory conversation with Beverly Villiers over the phone before speaking with an assistant DA in Chicago whom she happened to know. The news was so ominous, it sent a chill through her. Bobby, her Bobby, arrested for murder. How was that even possible?
Apparently the news had hit the Internet and the newspapers. Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos was making headlines. Handsome, rich, murderer of a beautiful woman. What more could the press ask for?
Before boarding her flight, she connected with M.J., who promised he’d meet her at the airport in Chicago.
“You gotta know that Bobby did nothing wrong,” M.J. assured her. “This is a full-on setup. Somebody’s out to get him.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I was with him, Denver. I took him to the emergency room. He was drugged out. The doctor mentioned something about he could’ve died.”
Denver felt her throat constrict. “Who was the girl?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
“I’m gonna fill you in when you get here,” M.J. said.
Denver attempted to remain calm; she had to hear all the facts before she jumped to conclusions. She was well aware that there were always two sides to every story, although obviously Bobby had known the murdered woman—he’d even gone to her hotel room. The thought of Bobby with another woman was driving her crazy, and even though she knew she was being irrational, she couldn’t help herself.
So … what was Bobby’s side? That’s what she was desperate to find out. An
d until she did, she couldn’t rest easy.
* * *
A familiar face at last! Max experienced a surge of joy, even if the familiar face was that of Carlo, the photographer who’d felt it perfectly reasonable to spend a drunken night camped out in her bed after their photo session in London. According to Athena, he was totally into sleeping with his models.
“Ciao, bella!” Carlo greeted her, moving in for an intimate hug.
“Ciao right back atcha,” she managed, pleased to see him, and forced to admit that there was something about him that she found wickedly hot. He was no Billy Melina, but he certainly had it going on in a low-down bad-boy kind of way. And who didn’t like bad boys?
They were now in the Dolcezza photo studio, a state-of-the-art airy space at the top of the building. Earlier she’d perused the sample clothes room and come up with a skimpy white crop top and crotch-hugging blue-jean shorts. It was kind of a Miley Cyrus look. She’d added a studded low-slung belt, a cluster of bangles, a statement necklace, and a pair of insane leopard-print Prada heels. Oh yes, this was a far better look for her—no more stupid jumpsuit to get lost in. Athena would definitely approve.
Lorenzo was standing by, and so was Giulia, who’d been instructed to stick around.
The hair and makeup team from that morning were gathered on one side of the studio, glaring at her with aghast expressions on their faces. Who did she think she was? Changing everything they’d done. It was sacrilege.
They muttered among themselves until the makeup woman in her tightly belted zebra-print coat approached Carlo, who was busy instructing one of his assistants to set up the background for his first shot. There followed a fiery exchange in rapid Italian, with the woman shooting contemptuous looks and gestures toward Max, while Carlo casually shrugged and acted unconcerned.
Max loved him for that. Maybe he wasn’t such an asshole. After all, it was because of him that she’d gotten this job, and he was obviously cool with the outfit she’d put together.
The zebra-print woman stalked back to her group and took out her cell phone with an angry flourish.
Unperturbed, Carlo motioned for Max to take her position in front of the camera. She did so, and the shoot began.
Gangsta rap blared from the speakers, so loud that Max could barely hear Carlo as he issued instructions about what he wanted her to do. First he required her to stare straight into the camera, hands tucked into the pockets of her shorts, head down, expression sexy. Next he requested that she lean against the plain backdrop, shoulders arched, one leg slightly bent, expression wistful.
They had a great working chemistry and they both felt it. Every so often Carlo would stop and check out the images he was capturing on a nearby computer screen. He muttered to himself, liking what he saw, winking at Max but not offering to show her anything. Then everything came to an abrupt halt with the entry of Natalia and Dante Dolcezza.
Zebra-print makeup woman raced toward them, relaying her annoyance. She was closely followed by the hair person and the clothes stylist, all of them waving their arms in the air and venting their frustration.
Carlo ordered one of his assistants to turn off the music, then he approached the twins. It was apparent to Max that they knew each other well, for Natalia was all over Carlo, smothering him with kisses, while Dante gave him an offhand nod.
“Who are they?” she asked Lorenzo.
“Natalia and Dante,” Lorenzo replied. “The Dolcezza twins.”
Max checked them out. She figured them to be in their late twenties. Natalia was tall and big-boned with dark skin, a strong face, and a longish nose. Not unattractive, she carried herself as if she were the most beautiful movie star on the planet. Dante was nothing like his sister. He was shorter and scarily thin, with a deathly pale complexion and small, hooded eyes. He wore a black studded leather jacket that Max immediately coveted.
Between Carlo, the twins, and the Italian glam squad, there was a definite cluster fuck of complaints going on. Obviously it was all about her refusal to look like someone she wasn’t. Too bad, she thought. I’ve made a stand and I’m sticking to it.
As the arguing continued, she wondered if now was the time to call Lucky back. Then she decided no—too much going on. Later would be better.
“What are they saying?” she whispered to Lorenzo.
“Complaining about you,” he said with a casual shrug.
“It might be polite for them to come over and say hello,” she grumbled. “It’s like they’re kind of ignoring me.”
“Better to keep a distance,” Lorenzo warned. “Natalia is very jealous.”
“Of me?”
“Of any girl Carlo photographs.”
“How come?”
“They are engaged.”
“Engaged?” Max exclaimed, caught off guard. “Are you serious?”
“For two years now. When it comes to making plans for a wedding, Carlo drags his feet. It does not please Natalia.”
“Wow!” Max exclaimed, thinking back to the night Carlo spent in her bed. That wouldn’t go down well with Natalia.
“Be careful,” Lorenzo said, lowering his voice. “The prince of darkness approaches.”
And suddenly Dante was standing directly in front of her, hooded eyes staring right through her. Creepy eyes. Creepy smile. Yellow teeth.
“Buon giorno,” he said quite pleasantly before changing his tone. “Now, may I suggest that you get yourself into the makeup chair and stop believing you can do whatever you want,” he added sharply. “Dolcezza tells you what you can or cannot do. I suggest that you read your contract, and start behaving like a professional. Am I making myself clear?”
Oh yes, he was making himself abundantly clear.
Max took a step back. Perhaps this was not going to be as easy as she’d thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Married or not, men were all the same. Blow jobs ruled their world, especially the kind of blow jobs Willow had perfected. Ah yes … although most men said there was no such thing as a bad blow job, Willow knew better. She’d been instructed by the best, a bisexual drag queen who’d taught her all the intricacies of doing it just right. She’d been fourteen at the time and working on a movie about a young runaway (her) who finds herself befriended by the drag queen. They’d become quite close on and off the screen, and she’d been happy to learn a trick or two. Tricks that had certainly enhanced her reputation among the male power players in Hollywood, plus a female executive or two.
Eddie Falcon was no exception. He might be married. His wife might be pregnant. But who was he to say no to a freebie? And since getting hitched to his Hollywood princess, Eddie had discovered that blow jobs were not high up on Annabelle’s list of things to do. The truth was that they seemed to have fallen off the menu altogether. So when Willow called and said she wanted to see him, he’d thought, Why not? What’s a quick blow job between an agent and his former client? And when he’d run into her at the Polo Lounge, she’d been looking hot in a Hollywood slut kind of way. So naturally, he’d remembered all the wild times they’d once shared, and what was the harm in wanting more?
Of course, if Annabelle ever found out, she wouldn’t be a happy camper. But Eddie was confident that there was no way she could find out, for rather than be seen in public with Willow, he’d instructed her to come to his office at six P.M. and to use his private elevator—which would bring her right into his spacious office with a mind-blowing view of Century City. That way she wouldn’t have to pass by anyone because he’d given her the direct access code.
Ah … he could expect a world-class blow job in his future, and Eddie got off on anticipating.
* * *
Meanwhile, Willow had a puppy to deal with, and while it was cute enough, she was so not used to caring for animals—especially an untrained puppy.
True to his promise, Sam had dropped off his precious script, and after scanning it quickly, she’d decided it was definitely not the movie Alejandro or she would want t
o make. No sex. No violence. Mucho conversations between a man and his inner self. Boring and so uncommercial. It was hardly a surprise that no studio had picked it up. The script was Sam’s inflated ego trip, the movie he wanted to make, and nobody else would give a shit.
Damn it! What was a girl to do?
Blow Eddie Falcon and ask his advice, for if anyone knew the ins and outs of Hollywood, it was Eddie.
After shutting the cute little puppy in her bedroom, she left to meet with Eddie.
Arriving at his office, she was dressed for action in slinky satin wide-legged pants—sans underwear—and a sheer top, nipples on alert. With her new earrings and exceptionally high heels, her look was complete. Sexy with a touch of class.
Stepping out of Eddie’s private elevator into his well-appointed office, she was greeted by the man himself in nothing more than his underwear and a crisp white shirt, his hard-on standing at full attention poking hopefully through his shorts.
This did not surprise Willow; she was used to the sexual predilections of powerful and famous men. One studio head she’d serviced had worn a lacy ladies’ thong and a plunging bra under his severe business suit. A top industry lawyer had insisted that she draw a smiley face on his penis with a felt-tip pen. And a very well-loved family star had made her trample all over his back wearing spiked hiking boots and nothing else.
Who was she to judge? She was merely a girl—an actress—trying to keep her name above the title.
“Hey, sexy tits,” Eddie said with a smile as he released what he referred to as the big ride.
It was not big, it was average—but Willow always oohed and aahed as though it were the most exciting piece of real estate she’d ever seen.
“Somebody’s pleased to see me,” she purred. “And since you’re a married man now, I guess the wife is not putting out.”
Eddie’s smile vanished. His hard-on didn’t. “No mention of the wife,” he said sternly. “She’s off-limits.”
“Fine with me,” Willow murmured. Cheating husbands never wanted to talk about their wives, unless it was to complain about what a bitch they were. Annabelle Falcon was a bitch, according to Frankie Romano, Alejandro’s drinking buddy who’d recently gotten himself arrested for drug trafficking. And Frankie should know—he was Annabelle’s ex-boyfriend.