Her words were slow and halting. “I’m pregnant,” she said at last.
“What?” he said, visibly blanching as he took a step back.
“Pregnant,” she repeated, delighted that she finally had his full attention.
“That’s impossible,” he snapped, refusing to entertain the idea. “You’re on the pill.”
“Mistakes happen,” she muttered.
“What are you talking about?” he said brusquely.
“The pill doesn’t always work,” she explained. “It happens, you know.”
“Christ!” he exploded.
“So, you see,” she said, beginning to feel a lot calmer now that she’d told him, “it’s time for us to come out in the open. We have to.”
He paced up and down for a moment or two before turning toward her with an accusatory expression. “What makes you think it’s mine?” he said harshly.
She’d known he’d say something like that. It pained her, but she understood Gregory’s weaknesses only too well, and when it came to confrontations he always tried to dodge the blame, exactly as he did in his political career.
And yet . . . she loved him. Couldn’t help herself.
Now she had his child growing inside her, and she wanted to be with him more than ever.
“It’s definitely yours,” she said quietly. “There’s no doubt.”
“It could be Matt’s,” he argued, furious that he was caught in the oldest trap known to man.
“It’s yours,” she repeated.
“How can you be so sure?” he insisted.
Oh God! He was making her feel like such a loser. And it simply wasn’t fair. She loved him so much, she always had.
“Because I haven’t slept with Matt in over three months,” she said in a low voice. “This baby is yours, Gregory, face up to it.”
“Christ!” he exclaimed for the second time. “Why did you do this?”
“Why did I do this?” she responded with a sudden flash of anger. “If I remember correctly, it’s you who comes to my apartment twice a week all ready to fuck my brains out.”
“Don’t be so damn crude,” he said, throwing her a disgusted look. “It doesn’t suit you.”
This wasn’t turning out the way she’d planned. She’d wanted him to say, “You’re right, this is wonderful news. We should be together. I’ll divorce my wife immediately.”
Yeah. Sure. In her dreams.
Deep down she’d had a hunch his reaction would be pure crap.
She sighed, and wished she had someone to confide in. But right from the beginning of their affair he’d sworn her to absolute secrecy, so she hadn’t even told Denver, her best friend who lived in L.A. As far as Denver knew, she’d been in a loving relationship with Matt until they broke up.
Ah Matt, even he had never suspected what was going on. They’d kept separate apartments, and he’d rarely stayed over at hers, so she’d been able to keep her affair with Gregory secret.
Now all she wanted to do was tell the world, and she especially wanted to tell Gregory Stoneman’s wife, Evelyn – who, according to Gregory, was a cold, domineering woman who refused to give him any sex. It was one of the reasons Carolyn had never felt guilty about sleeping with a married man. He needed her. She needed him. They shared an extremely close bond.
Gregory walked over to the window and stared out, his back to her.
“So . . .” she ventured, hoping his attitude was about to change and soften, “I think this means you have no choice. Either you tell your wife, or I do.”
He turned around, a strange look in his eyes. “Is that what you think will happen?” he said, his tone icy.
“Yes, Gregory,” she answered bravely. “This time I really mean it.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His expression was thoughtful. She took this as a positive sign; it was better than listening to him rant.
There was a long silence, and then he said, “You shouldn’t have told me here. This is something we need to talk about in private.”
“I agree,” she said, relieved that it seemed he was finally accepting the news.
“And you have to give me a couple of weeks to work this out,” he added, staring at her intently. “I cannot perform miracles overnight.”
“I can do that,” she said quickly.
“As you know only too well,” he continued, biting on his lower lip, “it’s very, very complicated. There’s my wife, and my children to consider . . .”
“Yes,” she said obediently. “I understand that it won’t be easy.”
“You bet it won’t,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice.
“But the thing is, we can do it together,” she added soothingly. “It’ll all work out, and then we’ll have each other.”
He shot her a wary look. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?” he demanded.
“Of course not,” she assured him.
“You’re absolutely certain?”
“Why would I? It’s our secret.”
“People tell secrets.”
“Not me.”
He began pacing, not looking at her.
She took a deep breath and waited for his next words.
“How pregnant are you?” he asked.
“Seven or eight weeks. I’m not sure.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I made an appointment with my gyno for next week,” she answered, encouraged that he was taking an interest.
“Cancel it,” he stated abruptly. “I want only the best for our baby. I’ll arrange for you to see someone.”
Our baby. How intoxicating were those words coming from Gregory. Her Gregory. She thought about the time two months ago when his wife and children were out of town and he’d taken her to his house. They’d spent a magical few hours together, he’d been so loving and so had she. That must have been the day she’d become pregnant.
Filled with a sudden rush of affection, she moved toward him, impulsively throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, nuzzling close and inhaling his masculine smell. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. But now that it has, I think it was meant to be. You do know how much I love you, and how I’ll always be here for you.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, his mind racing in a hundred different directions, none of them pleasant.
“It’ll be such a relief when we can come out in the open,” she said, imagining herself accompanying him to important Washington events and glittering dinner-parties. “You’ll see.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Only you must allow me to handle things my way.”
“I will,” she promised.
“You cannot say a word to anyone,” he reminded her. “That’s imperative. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course I do,” she said, kissing him, her tongue darting in and out of his mouth.
In spite of himself he was aware of a familiar stirring in his pants.
He felt angry, cornered and threatened, yet the conniving bitch could still give him a hard-on.
Placing his hands on her breasts he began tweaking her nipples through her blouse.
“Lock the door,” he muttered after a few moments, his voice suddenly thick with lust. “Then take off your top, get down on your knees and do that thing with your tongue you do so well. We’ll call it a celebration.”
“Yes, Gregory,” she murmured, thoroughly grateful that everything was going to be all right. “Whatever you want.”
Chapter Four
Bobby
When Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos walked into a room, women took notice, for not only was he over six feet tall, in his mid-twenties, and undeniably hot, he possessed great style. With his longish jet hair, intense black-as-night eyes, Greek nose and strong jawline, he drove women a little bit crazy. And it wasn’t about being incredibly good-looking – which he was. Nor was it about being the heir to a major fortune – which he also was. No, it was just a certain something. A m
ix of the young John Kennedy Jr., a touch of the Ashton Kutcher edge, and the mysterious allure of a Robert Pattinson.
Bobby’s Greek billionaire father, the late Dimitri Stanislopoulos, had been a powerful man, a true force in the business world of shipping and commerce. Bobby had never harbored any desire to follow in his father’s footsteps – that kind of business was not for him. Nor did he wish to emulate his mother’s successes. The wildly beautiful Lucky Santangelo had always done things her way – including building several Las Vegas luxury hotels, and running and owning Panther Movie Studios for several years. Bobby had always been surrounded by high achievers. Apart from his parents there was his stepfather – Lennie Golden – a former comedian/movie star, who now wrote and directed highly successful independent films, and his maternal grandfather, the inimitable Gino Santangelo.
So . . . what was a young college guy supposed to do to make his own mark in the world?
Fortunately, Bobby had big ideas of his own, and without asking anyone’s permission or opinion, he’d dropped out of college, headed for New York with his best friend, M.J., the African-American son of a renowned neurosurgeon, and the two of them had put together a group of investors, enabling them to open Mood, a private club, which after a few months had taken off and become the late-night place of choice.
Bobby was a hybrid of both parents. He’d inherited Dimitri’s dominant personality, along with his acute business savvy, and he possessed Lucky’s addictive charm, stubborn ways and strength of character. Not a bad combination.
Everyone wanted to be Bobby’s friend, but Lucky had taught him at an early age that when it came to friends and acquaintances he had to be extremely discerning. “People will want things from you because of who you are,” she’d warned him. “Money always manages to attract the wrong people. Look at Brigette and the series of losers who’ve latched onto her along the way. She’s fortunate to have survived.”
Brigette Stanislopoulos was Bobby’s niece, even though she was almost a decade older than him. Brigette was the daughter of Olympia – Bobby’s deceased half-sister – and the granddaughter of the long-dead Dimitri.
It seemed there were a lot of deaths on the Stanislopoulos side of the family. Bobby always kept the belief that he was more of a Santangelo.
He was extremely fond of Brigette, but from the stories he’d heard it seemed that she’d always fallen for the wrong men, and as a result she’d paid the price over and over again.
Because of Brigette’s example Bobby trod a wary path, especially with women.
He’d had many girlfriends, not one of them serious, all of them incredibly beautiful. Society girls, models, actresses. They came, they went. He enjoyed himself. Why wouldn’t he?
But none of them had meant anything, apart from Serenity – a woman he’d been hung up on eighteen months ago until she’d dumped him, had a one-nighter with his friend, Frankie Romano, then mysteriously vanished with her Russian husband to God knew where.
And then along came Zeena, a singing star known by one name. Zeena was the wrong side of forty with a body like Madonna, a bad girl attitude, and a cult-like following.
The woman was something else. An exotic beauty – half-Brazilian, half-American-Indian – she sashayed into Mood with her adoring entourage at least twice a week, always with a different young guy in tow, and yet somehow or other – much to Bobby’s extreme irritation – she usually managed to either flirt with or totally ignore him.
Zeena’s switches in temperament were driving him a little bit nuts. It was a miracle that he was keeping his infatuation to himself and not confiding in M.J. or Frankie – especially Frankie – who deejayed at the club, and was Annabelle Maestro’s boyfriend.
There were times Bobby couldn’t help wondering why he and Frankie were such close friends; they were so different it was ridiculous.
Frankie was into doing coke and getting high.
Bobby wasn’t.
Frankie was into cheating on Annabelle.
Bobby believed in monogamous relationships.
Frankie had an aversion to real work.
Bobby got off on making deals. Together with M.J. he was currently planning a franchise to open branches of Mood in Miami, London, and maybe Moscow.
In spite of their differences, Bobby liked to think that Frankie would always have his support and vice versa. Besides, they had a history together, and that would be Serenity, the beautiful Slovakian model who’d slept with both of them and then taken off.
Bobby still felt the sting of Serenity’s rejection.
Wisely, he chose not to trust either M.J. or Frankie with his latest obsession. If he told them about his thing for Zeena, they’d plague him to death with smart-ass remarks and sarcastic jibes; better he stay silent.
That didn’t mean that he couldn’t help having an urge to talk to someone about her – get an unbiased take on the situation.
Was she into him? Or did she get off on torturing him? Because she sure as hell knew how to do that.
He often wondered why the women he was most attracted to were the ones who rejected him. Lucky’s best friend, Venus – who’d treated him like a kid. Serenity – who’d treated him like an annoying lapdog. And now Zeena – what did she have in store for him? And why did he want her so much?
A shrink could go to town on that one.
To get his mind off Miz Superstar, he decided to take the weekend off and go on a trip to Atlantic City with Frankie and M.J. Frankie had been bugging him about it for weeks, so why not indulge in a little R&R?
Perhaps Zeena would miss not having him around, although being the woman she was, she probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone.
* * *
The drive to Atlantic City went by quickly. Frankie had been desperate to take his new red Ferrari, but as M.J. had rightfully pointed out, there was hardly room for two, let alone three inside it, so they’d ended up taking Bobby’s black BMW sedan instead. Bobby could’ve easily bought himself the latest Lamborghini or Porsche, but keeping a low profile was more his style, especially as on his twenty-fifth birthday he’d inherited the lion’s share of his late father’s estate – making him even richer.
Frankie and he never discussed money. It was one of those taboo subjects that neither of them ventured near, ever since Frankie had requested a loan early on in their friendship, and Bobby had turned him down flat. There was no way he was financing Frankie’s coke habit. Besides, Lucky had taught him that it was a big mistake to lend money. “You’ll lose a friend who’ll end up resenting you,” she’d explained. “So either give them the money and expect nothing back, or simply say no.” It was excellent advice.
Apart from deejaying, Frankie had recently gotten what he claimed was an investment business going on the side – something that he and Annabelle had gone into together.
Bobby and M.J. knew exactly what Frankie was up to – girls talked. But they’d decided to wait until he told them himself. Business must be booming, because Frankie’s latest acquisition – the red Ferrari – spelled out that whatever he was into was making him plenty of big bucks.
Before they left, Bobby got on the phone to Lucky. She divided her time between Vegas, L.A., and wherever her husband Lennie happened to be on location shooting one of his movies.
He reached her in Vegas, where she was keeping a sharp eye on The Keys, her latest creation – a magnificent hotel/apartment complex. Only open a couple of years, The Keys was already a major success.
No surprise there – everything Lucky did always turned to gold. Being her son, Bobby had a lot to live up to – and didn’t he know it. It was one of the reasons he’d taken off for New York and done his own thing. No competition.
Thank God it had all worked out. He had a successful club, with more on the way. A great apartment on the West Side. Friends. A crazy social life. And a mom, stepfather, two half-siblings, and various other family members he loved. Especially as they mostly lived in California and he was firmly settled in
New York.
As far as his inheritance was concerned, it was a huge responsibility – and instead of dipping into it, he’d decided not to touch it until he was older and wiser. Right now he was almost twenty-six and making it on his own. That was enough for him to feel damn good about himself. His inheritance could just sit there earning interest. It was far more rewarding and a hell of a lot better for his ego to live off the money he made himself.
“Hey!” Lucky said over the phone, sounding delighted to hear from him. “What’s going on with my number one son?”
“Number one son is on his way to Atlantic City for twenty-four hours of debauchery and sex,” he answered lightly.
“Just like your grandfather!” Lucky responded. And he could imagine her smiling when she said it.
“Seriously,” he added. “I’m taking off with M.J. and Frankie. Turning my phone to dead.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Lucky said. “I hate it when I can’t reach you.”
“Twenty-four hours, Mom.”
“Fine,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “I won’t worry.”
“Yeah, like you worry. Not!”
Lucky laughed. “The only one I worry about is Brigette. Have you seen her lately?”
“Called her a couple of days ago. She seems okay.”
“You’re her uncle,” Lucky scolded. “I wish you’d stay in touch.”
“Yeah, an uncle who happens to be ten years younger than her,” Bobby pointed out. “It’s not like we have a lot in common.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know she’s a magnet for losers. Someone has to watch out for her, and I’m not there.”
“Got it,” Bobby said, scrawling Brigette’s name on a pad by the phone so he wouldn’t forget. “I’ll call her again when I get back.”
“Thank you,” Lucky said briskly. “Oh, and give my love to M.J. When are you two coming to spend a weekend at the hotel? I’m very fond of M.J.”
“Yeah, M.J.’s cool,” Bobby agreed, thinking how far back they went. High school. College. Opening Mood together. They shared many a fine memory. And since they both came from money, they’d never wanted anything from each other – only friendship.