Danny arrived to escort her to her office.
“News flash,” Danny announced, looking all pleased with himself.
“What?” Lucky asked, striding to the elevator, chic in black leather pants, boots, and a cashmere shell, her long hair wild and falling around her shoulders, large yellow diamond studs affixed to her earlobes.
“It’s juicy,” Danny exclaimed, hopping to keep up with her.
“Give it up, Danny, or shut it up,” Lucky said.
“The perv in the Presidential Suite I was telling you about earlier is the man you’re on your way to meet.”
“Huh?”
“Armand Jordan. Jordan Developments.”
“You’re kidding.”
“One and the same.”
“Remind me again what the story was.”
“Apparently,” Danny said, savoring every morsel, “Mr. Jordan hired a couple of expensive call girls, made them do all kinds of unspeakable acts, then refused to pay extra for, ah … certain things that require more money.”
“Nice.”
“Are you sure you should meet with him?”
“Why not?” Lucky replied with a casual shrug. “It’s quite likely I can embarrass him into paying up. Wouldn’t that be fun.”
“And you’d do that, wouldn’t you?” Danny said, delighted at the prospect of watching his boss in action.
Lucky grinned. “Working girls deserve every red cent they make. Maybe I should consider it my good deed for the day. Whaddya think, Danny?”
“Oh yes, I think definitely yes!”
* * *
Cruising down the highway with Cookie’s head in his lap, and his cock in her mouth, Frankie couldn’t have felt more on top of the world.
What could be better than this? Drake loud and sexy on the sound system. The hot sun burning down on them. The smooth thrust of his Corvette as the speedometer hit 80. Plus the insane sensation of holding back what he knew was about to be a mind-shattering orgasm.
Man, Frankie was flying and then some.
Until … the goddamn siren. The cop car drawing alongside them. And a red-faced motherfucker of a cop frantically signaling for him to pull over.
He did so, and the cop marched up to his window.
“Sorry, Officer,” Frankie said, attempting to seem contrite. “Music too loud?”
“License and registration,” Angry Cop said. “And get out the car.” He peered suspiciously over at Cookie. “You too.”
Cookie, who was busy applying a fresh layer of sticky lip gloss, frowned. “What did I do?” she asked petulantly.
“Lewd behavior in a moving vehicle,” Angry Cop announced. “I’m thinking of booking both of you.”
Frankie tried to remember where he’d stashed the coke and the grass and the pills he’d brought along on the trip—the main reason he hadn’t wanted to fly. Then he remembered that all his drugs were in his overnight bag, along with his shaving kit.
Oh shit, this could still be bad.
As Cookie climbed out of the car, Angry Cop gave her a hard piercing look. “How old are you?” he demanded. “And have you been drinking?”
* * *
Once they were in the air, Denver decided to make an effort to be nice to Bobby’s truculent little sister. She moved over to sit next to her. “Bobby tells me you’re planning on relocating to New York,” she said. “Sounds like an exciting thing to do.”
Max grunted.
“Any idea what you want to do when you get there?” Denver asked, persevering.
Another grunt.
“Well, anyway,” she continued, “I bet your mom’ll miss you. I know my mom was very upset when I moved out, and we were living in the same city, so you can imagine.”
No reaction at all.
Denver gave up. Screw it. What did she care if Bobby’s sister approved of her or not? It was quite obvious that Max felt she had dibs on her brother, and woe betide any girl who came too close.
Bobby was sitting up front talking music with Paco, while Harry sat listening to them, his pale face full of rapt attention.
“If you want, while we’re in Vegas, you can spin at my club for a couple of hours,” Bobby offered. “I’m always searching out new talent, and a happening deejay makes all the difference.”
Harry nodded enthusiastically. “Paco’s the best,” he announced proudly. “You’ll definitely want to hear what he can do.”
“I already got a gig in Vegas,” Paco said, polite and nervous at the same time. “But spinnin’ at your club would be an honor.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Bobby said, grabbing Denver’s arm as she came over and settled into the seat next to him. “This girl’s into Adele, Winehouse, Mayer. Not me—I’m into everything,” he added, squeezing her hand.
“Ah yes, that’s me,” Denver said wryly. “The girl who’s into mellow.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Paco said earnestly, trying to hide his excitement at actually sitting with these people on a private plane. His family, who all resided in the Bronx, would never believe him. “The mix is what matters. Rap, Cuban, rock, mellow—it all works together. That’s the way you get people on the floor.”
“You see,” Denver said, shooting Bobby a look. “This guy knows what he’s talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah, I see,” Bobby said, still grinning.
Hani came by carrying mimosas in tall glasses. Bobby handed one to Denver, then took one for himself.
“Here’s to the weekend, babe,” he said, clinking glasses. “We’re gonna have a great time.”
She smiled and realized that she was hopelessly, happily, deeply, in love.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said softly.
And suddenly she was delighted she’d agreed to come on this weekend.
* * *
Once more they were on the move, Frankie’s Corvette roaring down the highway at full speed. Somehow or other Cookie had convinced Angry Cop they were on their way to get married, and that the sex thing he thought he’d seen wasn’t what it looked like, and that her daddy, Gerald M.—yes, the Gerald M.—was waiting to greet them, along with several camera crews and a shitload of paparazzi. Only she didn’t say shitload; she cooled it with the language.
At first Angry Cop didn’t believe she was Gerald M.’s daughter, but she had proof—several photos of them together on her iPad, and his latest CD in her purse. She carried it with her at all times for just such an occasion.
Angry Cop’s wife was a fan, so Angry Cop wasn’t so angry anymore, and after a short lecture on road safety, he sent them on their way with a warning to be more careful in the future.
“You should be a freakin’ actress,” Frankie exclaimed, full of genuine admiration. “That little performance you just put on was insane!”
“I know,” Cookie said with a less-than-modest giggle. “I’m the real shit, right?”
“You bet your ass,” Frankie agreed.
“My dad taught me t’ use his name whenever it would get me outta trouble. There’s gotta be some perks to being his kid.”
“Your dad sounds like a smart dude.”
“Not so much. When it comes to pussy, he’s a total douche.”
“I’d still like to meet him,” Frankie said, thinking of the possibilities.
“One of these days,” Cookie answered vaguely.
“Well anyway, I’m impressed,” Frankie said. “I thought we were definitely gettin’ busted.”
Cookie giggled again. “That’s the fifth CD I’ve used as payoff. It works every time.”
“Yeah?” Frankie said. “So tell me, how many dudes you been caught givin’ head to in a movin’ vehicle?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she murmured mysteriously.
No, actually, he wouldn’t. Some things were best left unsaid.
* * *
Feeling sorry for herself, Max decided a mimosa was a fine idea. So even though she didn’t usually drink, she downed two, and immediately felt l
ight-headed.
Nobody cared. Bobby was too busy with his girlfriend to notice, while Harry was totally locked into Paco, who didn’t seem at all gay—so what was that about? Was Harry delusional? Or had something actually taken place? She hadn’t bothered to ask him; she was too caught up with all the drama in her own life.
Tears threatened to flow. Snap out of it, she warned herself. Get a grip and stop acting like a girl. You’re a Santangelo. Suck it up. So you had a one-nighter with Billy Melina. Big freaking deal.
They hadn’t used protection.
Dumb.
Super dumb.
What if she was pregnant?
The very thought shocked her sober, and she moved as far away from everyone as possible, strapped herself into a seat, closed her eyes, and attempted to shut out the world.
* * *
“I must say, you certainly know how to put me together with the classiest of people,” Lucky complained to Jeffrey when they met up in her office adjacent to the conference room.
“What are you talking about?” Jeffrey asked, looking puzzled.
“These Jordan Development people,” Lucky said, tossing back her hair.
“Yes?” Jeffrey said, clearing his throat.
“Apparently they’re into hooker paradise and not paying.”
Jeffrey adjusted the heavy old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses he always wore to business meetings. “Is there some information I should know about?” he asked, uncomfortable that Lucky apparently knew things he didn’t.
“Yes,” Lucky said, moving behind her oversized art deco desk and sitting down. “If I know it, so should you.”
Jeffrey pulled up a leather chair opposite her desk. “And how do we know this?” he inquired.
“We know,” Lucky replied, tapping her fingers on the desk. “Because Danny is the eyes and ears of everything that goes on in my hotel. Right, Danny?”
Danny, who was busy setting up his laptop at a side table so he could recount every detail of the upcoming meeting, nodded.
“What exactly did you hear?” Jeffrey asked.
Danny repeated his story. He really enjoyed being the center of attention; it made a welcome change from hovering in the background.
Jeffrey frowned. This did not bode well for the upcoming meeting. If he knew Lucky, she couldn’t care less that the man they were meeting with had entertained hookers. But the fact that he’d stiffed them would definitely irk her.
Before Jeffrey had time to think it through, the receptionist announced that the people from Jordan Developments had arrived.
Lucky smiled a slow, dangerous smile, her black eyes sparkling.
“Let the show begin,” she drawled. “This could turn out to be quite interesting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Armand often reflected on what his life would have been like if he’d been raised as a normal boy in America. He wasn’t normal; he knew that. He was special. He was a prince. His childhood in Akramshar had been anything but normal. He’d been born in a palace, nursed by women in long black robes who’d barely talked to him. And it wasn’t until he and his mother moved to New York when he was eight that he’d finally gotten to spend time with her. Up until then he’d had very little to do with Peggy; she was merely this dazzling redheaded woman who’d occasionally swooped into the nursery wearing low-cut silk gowns and magnificent jewelry.
The king had different rules for the women in his country. Poor females were not allowed to be educated and wore long body-covering robes at all times. Rich females could do whatever they wanted. Most girls from affluent families were schooled in Europe, and many of them chose not to come back, for arranged marriages at the king’s request were quite normal. Soraya, Armand’s wife, was one of the girls who’d come back.
Armand never gave much thought to Soraya. She was the mother of his children, that pleased the king, and pleasing the great man was all that mattered.
Returning to Akramshar once a year had shaped Armand’s life. He was a tried-and-true prince, and one day he might be tempted to let the world know, for he was well aware how impressed Westerners were with titles.
But not today. Today he was buying a hotel, soon to be the jewel in his property empire, the crème de la crème of Vegas.
Armand believed in pampering himself. After doing several lines of coke, he thoroughly showered before applying various lotions to his body, spending an inordinate amount of time massaging his balls and fine shaft of manhood. Thinking of the whores from the night before caused him to become so hard that he had no choice but to attend to his needs. Inconvenient, but far more enjoyable than being with any woman.
When he was finished, he took another shower, applied more lotions, stared at his reflection for a while, and finally got dressed. First a silk Turnbull & Asser shirt made especially for him in London, a $350 tie from Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills, and finally an $8,000 pinstriped custom suit in pearl gray.
Admiring himself once again in the mirror, he had to admit that he made a dashing figure. It was no wonder women pursued him. The New Yorker magazine had recently listed him as one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.
New York indeed. How about the world?
* * *
Peggy did not sleep well at all. She couldn’t relax. Her mind was buzzing, filled with memories of the young girl who was once the toast of Vegas.
Ah … she remembered those times so well. And she also remembered Gino Santangelo. When Fouad had told her the old man’s name, she’d been filled with excitement. She’d thought it was him, but she hadn’t been sure. Now she knew.
Seeing Gino again after so many years was quite a surprise. It had brought every long-distance memory crashing back.
LAS VEGAS 1968
Peggy Lindquest. A young, ambitious girl from Ohio. A girl with legs up to here, translucent skin, and fiery red hair. A girl who captured every man’s attention.
Peggy hit town like the proverbial firecracker, filled with ambition and the desire to make a career for herself, or at least snag a rich man. She was eighteen and hot to tango.
It wasn’t long before she landed a job at Caesar’s Palace, dancing in the chorus of a big flashy show. Dancing, and sometimes showing her breasts while attired in a fantastic showgirl costume of sequins and feathers. Her breasts were real and quite something. A 36C with rosebud nipples. Men lusted after her perfect breasts.
Peggy was no virgin. She’d been having sex with boys since she was thirteen. She knew what men wanted, and she was prepared to let them beg for it.
She met Joe Piscarelli at a party. Twelve years older than her and dashingly handsome in a gangster kind of way. Girls swooned over Joe, but not Peggy. She played hard to get until he was begging her to move in with him. Eventually she did so, and it was blissful for a while, until she discovered that Joe possessed a vile temper, which sometimes exploded into violent rage. When that happened, Peggy ran away to stay with one of her girlfriends.
It was on just such an occasion that she’d encountered Gino Santangelo. Gino was an older man, but he was full of charisma and powerful vibes. Everyone knew Gino in Vegas; he was kind of a legend. And quite a ladies man.
Peggy slept with him. Once. It was a night to remember.
The next day she was back in Joe’s bed. And two weeks after that she was on her way to Akramshar with the king.
But Peggy had never forgotten her one night of lust with Gino Santangelo. And seeing him again all these years later—even though he was now an old man—she couldn’t stop remembering their night of unbridled passion.
It was a memory she cherished.
Satisfied with his image, Armand added solid-gold cuff links, an onyx and diamond masculine-style bracelet, and on his other wrist a $250,000 diamond-encrusted watch.
At last he was ready for his meeting. A meeting that would change his life. He was sick of New York, the clubs, the women, the social events. He needed a change.
Vegas had so much to offer. It was his ki
nd of town.
And soon he would own it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I’m starving,” Max whined to Bobby as he exited the bathroom on the plane.
She knew she sounded needy, but she simply couldn’t help herself; she had a strong urge to take her frustration out on someone.
“How can you be hungry?” Bobby questioned, eager to get back to Denver. “There’s a whole buffet laid out.”
“I feel like a hamburger,” Max insisted. “Can we go to the Hard Rock when we land?”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Bobby said. “I’m busy. Gino’s in town; call him when we get there, he’ll take you.”
“Oh,” she said scornfully. “I really want to go get a burger with my grandfather.”
“Might I remind you, your grandfather is one of the greatest men you’ll ever come across,” Bobby said, frowning. “He practically invented Vegas, so you should try listening to his stories sometime. Maybe you’d learn something.”
“Why are you being so mean to me?” Max asked, her eyes filling with tears.
“Who’s being mean? Not me.”
“Yes you are,” she said fiercely. “You’re, like, ignoring me.”
Bobby shook his head in exasperation. “What’s up with you today? How come you’re acting like a spoiled little kid?”
“I am so not,” she said crossly. “It’s you and what’shername.”
“Her name is Denver,” Bobby said sternly. “And you might try being a bit nicer to her.”
“Why’s that?” Max demanded, narrowing her eyes. “Are you planning on marrying her or something?”
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. The last person she wanted to alienate was Bobby. She was hoping he’d forget what she’d just said, hug her, and act all big brotherly. Why couldn’t he do that?