Drop Dead Beautiful

Irma thought the interaction between the two of them was sick, but she never interfered for fear of repercussions. Irma had learned over the years that it was best to keep quiet.

  Sometimes Anthony Bonar thought that if it wasn’t for his children he would divorce Irma and marry his outstandingly sexy mistress, Emmanuelle. She was so hot that sometimes he couldn’t believe she was his. Twenty years old with a body any red-blooded male would kill for, she was one of the most sought-after models in Miami. Not one of those snooty bitches who strutted the runways, no, Emmanuelle was featured on the covers of Stuff and Maxim—a popular cover girl with her sexy blond curls and the best fake tits this side of Rio, the city where she was born.

  Anthony had met her in a club six months earlier. She’d been snorting coke with a hard-living male movie star who swung both ways. Anthony had taken one look at her and proceeded to move in big-time. Within weeks he’d set her up in an apartment, bought her a new Mercedes, showered her with jewelry and designer clothes.

  Anthony got off on collecting beautiful, sexy women, and Emmanuelle was a prize. But as much as he reveled in his power over females, business always came first. Business, followed by his two children, then his grandmother, and trailing way behind was Irma. Truth was he didn’t really like his wife; she was boring and a nag—always on his case about moving back to America. Most women would be thrilled to live in a twenty-five-thousand-square-foot home with servants and bodyguards. But not Irma, oh no, not his wife. Irma wanted to be near him so she could bug the shit out of him with her constant demands for sex.

  Why did she still expect him to fuck her? He’d given her two children. Wasn’t that enough? She was a mother, for chrissakes; he didn’t fuck mothers.

  Besides, he had other things on his mind, and making Grandma happy was a number-one priority.

  When he’d told Francesca his plans for finally taking action against the Santangelos, her long, thin face had lit up. “At last you have the balls of your grandfather,” she’d exclaimed. “You make me a very happy woman, Anthony.”

  “Whatever I’m doin’, it’s for you,” he’d said. “’Cause you care so much.”

  “No!” she’d said sharply. “Not for me. For the Bonnatti name. For the Bonnatti honor. Your stupid half-brother couldn’t do it. Nor could Donatella. Now it is your duty to ruin the Santangelo family once and for all.”

  “Hey, it’s gonna happen,” he’d promised.

  “It better,” she’d answered sharply. “You hear me, Anthony? It better.”

  “What? Ya don’t believe me?”

  “It’s taken you long enough.”

  “Jesus Christ! I do everythin’ for you, an’ still you doubt me.”

  And so the screaming had started. Always the screaming.

  Anthony was used to it. In a strange way it was his only true comfort zone.

  Sitting outside under a leafy tree in the garden of their house, Irma watched the two gardeners at work. One was an older man, his lined face grizzled from the sun. The other was a much younger man, with a muscled body and brooding features. Irma stared at him, observing his dark, bushy eyebrows, thick lips, and muscular arms. He reminded her of her first boyfriend way back in Omaha when she was a mere fourteen. Andy Francis, a very possessive boy who’d slugged other boys simply for looking at her. Well, she thought with a slight smile, I was the prettiest girl in school.

  Memories of Andy brought back feelings of her first sexual stirrings. Andy’s hard little kisses, his fifteen-year-old tongue stuck firmly in her mouth thrusting and twisting. Andy’s eager hands exploring under her sweater, unfastening her bra and clumsily fondling her breasts. Andy’s frustration when she refused to allow him to go any further.

  Irma found that she couldn’t stop staring at the younger of the two gardeners. He was new, she’d only seen him a couple of times before.

  Suddenly he glanced up and met her gaze. His eyes were full of suspicion, but he didn’t look away, and neither did she.

  It was a moment that set her thinking. Was this destined to be the man she had an affair with? This lowly Mexican gardener who probably stank of sweat and wine and would handle her roughly, because in his eyes he surely must see her as a beautiful blond lonely American princess.

  She experienced a shiver of excitement, followed by a moist feeling between her legs.

  Oh God, it had been so long since Anthony had touched her. Right now she was suffused with desire.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the man, his rippling muscles, his stoic face. Yes, she had to have him. And why shouldn’t she? Anthony thought he was so clever with his secretive ways, but she knew about his mistresses—the Italian whore he kept in a penthouse in New York, and the so-called model in Miami. Besides, he’d taken her children from her, and that wasn’t right.

  She also knew plenty about his business dealings. The drug shipments, the many meetings, his associates in Colombia and Bolivia whom she’d met.

  Damn Anthony. He was forcing her to go elsewhere for the sexual satisfaction she craved.

  The old gardener turned and began a slow trudge toward the greenhouse. The young gardener stayed where he was.

  Irma couldn’t stop watching him. After a few moments she acted on impulse and beckoned him over. He headed in her direction, a wary expression on his face.

  What am I doing? she thought. This is crazy. But her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t stop herself.

  When the gardener arrived in front of her, she lost all sense of reason and found herself incapable of looking him in the eye.

  “Señora?” he questioned. His smell wafted in the air, healthy sweat mixed with garlic.

  “Uh … you’re new here, aren’t you?” she managed, fanning herself with a magazine. “What’s your name?”

  “Perdone, señora,” he mumbled, rubbing his thigh with a large work-worn hand. “No hablar Engleesh.”

  “You don’t?” she said, startled. Then she thought, Why would he? He’s only a gardener, probably dropped out of school early.

  She studied his lips. They fascinated her, they were so thick and tempting. Then there was the faint stubble on his chin, so manly. And his forearms, strong and muscled.

  “Name,” she repeated, fanning herself more vigorously. “Nombre?”

  “Luis,” he muttered in a low voice.

  “Gracias, Luis,” she said, dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

  He turned and walked away, giving her ample time to study his tight ass in faded jeans.

  Abruptly she stood up and headed for the house. If she couldn’t have Luis, perhaps she would settle for the handheld neck massager she’d recently purchased. The small piece of machinery certainly wasn’t Luis, but the results were always a ten.

  Emmanuelle was a girl who liked to party, but Anthony Bonar soon convinced her that the best parties consisted of two people only—although an occasional other girl introduced into the mix did not seem to bother him. Early on in their relationship he’d threatened to fucking kill her if she ever cheated on him. Those were his exact words, and she was almost convinced that he meant it. Almost, not quite, for Emmanuelle was young and got off on enjoying herself. After all, Anthony was not always around. Early on she’d discovered that he had a wife and another mistress in New York, so she’d decided that if he was getting it elsewhere, why shouldn’t she?

  So far she’d only cheated on him once with a fellow model. Nobody found out. They’d done it in a dressing room halfway through a photo session. Hot, fast sex standing up.

  Anthony never did it standing up. He wanted her flat on her back with her ankles around his neck while he pumped away like a machine. In, out. In, out. No technique whatsoever.

  She’d soon realized that her new boyfriend was not the greatest lover in the world—although he obviously thought he was. Most men did.

  Emmanuelle refused to disillusion him, for she’d met generous men before, but Anthony was in a class by himself and she was partial to luxury goods, especially when
they came with a major price tag. This meant that although Anthony Bonar wasn’t her usual type, she played him all the way.

  In spite of the blond curls and fake tits, Emmanuelle had a head for business, and she knew she had Anthony hot enough to buy her almost anything she wanted. The downside was that he put nothing in her name—not the Mercedes, not the lease on the apartment he’d set her up in, not even the jewelry he’d gifted her with. If she ever left him, it all had to come back to him, he informed her. Or else.

  Anthony was big with threats. Emmanuelle didn’t like that, but even so she’d decided to stick it out for the time being until she could figure a way to persuade him to start putting things in her name. After all, if he broke up with her, it wasn’t fair that she would walk away with nothing. And since he was enjoying the many and varied pleasures of her fabulous body, not to mention her extraordinary oral expertise, he should pay, there was no doubt about it.

  Emmanuelle knew she was right.

  Chapter 8

  “Baby!” Venus murmured, wrapping her well-toned arms around Billy Melina’s neck and kissing him on the lips. “I missed you so much. How’d it go today?”

  “Alex Woods is a workaholic freakin’ asshole,” Billy complained, shrugging off his Chrome Hearts leather jacket and flinging it on Venus’s oversized bed.

  “Everyone knows that,” she agreed, kneeling on top of the bed looking sexy in a barely-there black lace teddy. “However, at least he’s a talented asshole, which so many of them aren’t.”

  Billy was inclined to disagree. It was almost midnight and he was wiped out. He’d had a bitch of a day what with the sex session out by his pool with the girl from Tower Records, then working endless hours on the street faking tough-as-shit choreographed fight scenes. Alex Woods was king of the “Let’s go for another take” school of directors, and it drove Billy nuts. How many times was he supposed to get punched in the head and thrown over the hood of a car? Oh sure, he had a stand-in, but Alex insisted that he be front and center for most of the action, and when he objected— even a little bit—Alex berated him in front of the entire crew. “Our actor doesn’t want to get down ’n’ dirty,” Alex jeered. “Let’s get a chair for our fucking actor so he can put his fucking feet up. Wouldn’t want to overwork him.”

  At which point Billy had agreed to shoot the scene himself. No stand-in required.

  Man, he felt totally shattered. When they’d wrapped for the night, all he’d really wanted to do was go home and soak in his hot tub. Instead he’d been obliged to rush over to Venus’s palatial mansion in Beverly Hills, because she’d called him on his cell four times insisting he come by when he was finished, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

  “It’ll be late,” he’d warned.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she’d answered. “Keeping the bed warm for you, baby.”

  If anyone had told him eight years ago that Venus Maria, one of the most famous women in the world, would be keeping the bed warm for him, he would’ve laughed like a freakin’ loon.

  Venus Maria. Platinum-blond superstar. A woman so famous she was now known by only one name: Venus. Everyone knew who she was. They bought her CDs, flocked to her movies, wore the hottest jeans in town with her name emblazoned on the label, sprayed themselves with her latest signature scent, and worshipped at her live stadium performances.

  Venus was a freakin’ icon. And he was her boyfriend. Her much younger boyfriend—well, not that much younger, thirteen years. And that meant nothing. It wasn’t as if he was some snot-nosed boy toy—he was a very successful movie star in his own right. He had a house, plenty of money, and a sizzling career. He didn’t need Venus’s fame to tag on to; he had his own.

  Besides, if the situation were reversed and she was thirteen years younger than him, nobody would give a rat’s ass. Hollywood was awash with old geezers whose wives and girlfriends were decades younger than them, and nobody said a word. Unfortunately, he and Venus got the treatment. Front page of the tabloids always carrying on about their age difference. Was she going to marry him? Was she pregnant? Were they breaking up? Was she too rich for him? Was he famous enough for her?

  At first he’d got off on all the attention, then after a while it started to get to him. He was a star, too; he didn’t appreciate all the trash talk he had to endure.

  Venus loved him, he knew that. The big question was: Did he love her? Or did he love everything she represented? The extreme fame and superglamor. The adulation and nonstop fan worship. Sometimes he simply wasn’t sure whether it was love or infatuation.

  And if he really loved her, would he cheat on her the way he had that afternoon?

  For a moment he flashed onto the young girl who’d followed him up to his house in her rundown truck with the broken taillight. She’d followed him willingly, and he’d given her exactly what she expected.

  Screwing her was a trip. Her lips, so soft and sweet, not to mention the sticky tightness between her legs.

  And yet … he couldn’t help feeling guilty.

  Sort of … because if he caught Venus screwing another man, he’d go ape shit. Venus was his girlfriend—his freakin’ girlfriend—and if she played around on him, it would mess with his head big-time.

  Not that he was possessive—at least he didn’t think he was. Venus was the possessive one. She could be bossy, a bit of a control freak, but she could also be supportive and loving, the way she was tonight. Although … from the look in her eyes, he knew she expected sex, and man, tonight was not the night. After Alex’s brutal workout his body was bruised, wrecked, and beaten.

  “Come to bed, baby,” she purred. “I’ll give you a back rub, you know how you like that.”

  Yeah, sex was definitely on her agenda, and what was he supposed to do about that?

  Nothing, because a sane man didn’t turn down a superstar, not if he wanted to continue being her boyfriend.

  “A back rub sounds kinda hot,” he mumbled.

  “Of course it does,” she murmured, husky-voiced and ready for action. “’Cause I’ll rub you, then you’ll rub me. …”

  “That’s a plan,” he said, pulling off his T-shirt. “Only first I gotta shower.”

  “Why?” she asked, reaching up and stroking the back of his neck. “Funky works for me.”

  “How about skunky funky?” he said, extracting himself from her touch. “Look at me—I’m in sweat overdrive, babe, an’ I got a hunch you won’t go for that.”

  “Okay, take a shower,” she sighed. “But hurry up, you know how impatient I get.”

  She wasn’t kidding about that. Miss I want it now! Venus never let up when she had her mind set on something.

  “You got it, ma’am,” he said, reverting to his former self, the dumb-ass kid who’d hit Hollywood eight years ago thinking all women deserved respect.

  How green was he?

  Green and fortunate, because after several months of bumming around trying to make something happen, working as a waiter and sleeping on a friend’s floor, he’d found himself an agent who’d sent him on an interview for an NBC sitcom. He’d scored the part, been in six on-air episodes, and just when he’d imagined himself as the second coming of Matthew Perry, the show was canceled and he was back where he’d started—waiting tables at the Cheesecake Factory in Brentwood.

  Two months later he got a call from his agent informing him that Alex Woods wanted to see him. Alex Woods— mega producer/director/writer supreme! Holy shit!

  The day of his interview with Alex was forever etched in his mind. He’d walked into an imposing office nervous as a virgin on a date with a porn star. And there she was, standing around as if she had nothing better to do. Venus. The freaking Venus. She of the platinum-blond hair, sexy stance, and out-of-this-world bod.

  “Hi, Billy,” she’d said, as if she actually knew him. “Thanks for coming in today. I’m a big fan of your work.”

  Thanks for coming in! Big fan of his work! Was she freakin’ kidding! He would’ve done anything f
or a meeting with Venus—she was the jerk-off queen of all his fantasies.

  Alex Woods was slouched behind a large untidy desk, speaking on the phone. He’d glanced up and waved distractedly in Billy’s direction.

  “Sit down, Billy,” Venus had said, indicating a sprawling couch.

  Billy sat. Venus sat.

  He’d thought he was freakin’ dreaming it was all so surreal.

  Later he’d read a scene with her in front of Alex and Lucky Santangelo, another producer on the movie.

  He was good; in fact, he was better than good—in his mind he’d nailed the part and then some. And why not, with Venus as his inspiration standing opposite him in dangerously low-cut yoga pants and a belly-baring top? Not only was she this freakin’ worldwide superstar, she was also surprisingly friendly and nice. She actually treated him like an equal. She actually talked to him before he had to read. Who’d’ve thought?