Double Lucky

  “How come?” Max shot back.

  “’Cause you’re not twenty-one. And that means we could lose our license.”

  “As if!” Max scoffed. “Besides, we’ve all got fake ID’s.”

  “Great,” Bobby said sarcastically. “That makes me feel so much better.”

  Then, to his relief, he spotted Lucky and Lennie walking in. Great timing, because it meant that Max was no longer his problem. Let Lucky deal.

  “Here come your mom and dad,” he warned. “Better skip back to your table, little girl, or Mommy might give you a smack on your bottom.”

  “You are so mean,” Max said, making a face. “I hate you!”

  “Not mean, just protective.”

  “Anyway, what are they doing here?” Max said, twisting her head to take a look as Lucky and Lennie approached. “I thought they wanted alone time. So gross!”

  “Nice way to talk about your parents,” Bobby said.

  “They’re yours too,” Max pointed out.

  “Half mine,” Bobby said, correcting her.

  “Whatever.”

  Moments later Lucky and Lennie were upon them, and Lennie was giving Max a hug while Lucky was checking out Denver and Bobby was thinking, Half an hour later and we could’ve been safely out of here.

  In the club business, the night was only just beginning.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Annabelle Maestro was a talker. She didn’t shut up for a minute. Armand had no idea what or who she was talking about. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Names came and went as they sat in one of the open lounges drinking tequila on the rocks with limoncello chasers—a lethal combination thought up by Annabelle. He liked the buzz the liquor was giving him. He liked the fact that there was no Fouad around keeping a watchful eye on him.

  “If you’re not here for the fights, what are you doing in Vegas?” she asked, rubbing her index finger around the rim of her glass and staring at him expectantly.

  “I am buying The Keys hotel and casino,” Armand announced. Yes, that’s what I’m doing. Damn you, Lucky Santangelo. You’ll soon learn that when Armand Jordan wants something, he gets it. I am unstoppable. And if I say something is going to happen, it will, whether you think you can stop it or not. But how can you stop it if you’re dead? Impossible.

  “You’re kidding!” Annabelle exclaimed, her eyes widening. This guy wasn’t just rich; he was mega rich. Ever since their one date a few months ago, she’d had her eye on him. Although they’d experienced one long wild night of sex, he’d never called. Annabelle did not appreciate rejection, especially as she considered herself semifamous, and he should’ve been thrilled to date her.

  Armand had quite a reputation in New York as being aloof and difficult to pin down. But Annabelle was well aware that he was a major catch, and she craved a steady boyfriend; there’d been nobody permanent since she’d broken up with that sad sack druggie Frankie Romano.

  Earlier in the evening she’d had a big fight with her latest boyfriend, Eddie Falcon, the superagent. They’d only been seeing each other a few weeks, but tonight she’d discovered, by scrolling through his texts, that Eddie was cheating on her with not one but three other girls. Apparently he was the Tiger Woods of superagents. What an asshole! She’d been planning on dumping him and flying back to New York, but then, walking through the casino to cool off, she’d run into Armand.

  When opportunity beckoned, Annabelle was not about to turn it down.

  “I never thought Lucky would sell,” Annabelle said. “When’s this happening?”

  “Soon,” Armand replied, feeling the need to get to his villa and indulge in a few more lines of coke before the hookers got there. He’d informed the concierge to alert him when they arrived, and to have them wait in his villa. For a thousand-dollar tip, Armand figured the concierge would fuck them himself.

  “Then you must be going to the party tomorrow night,” Annabelle ventured.

  “What party?” Armand asked, thinking he would invite her back to his villa to see if he could get her to interact with the prostitutes. Now that might be worth watching.

  “Lucky’s daughter, Max, is turning eighteen. There’s a big blowout at The Keys,” Annabelle said. “Since I told my boyfriend to take a hike, I could go with you. I know the Santangelos; I’m sure they’d be delighted to see me. Bobby and I went to high school together.”

  “Who is Bobby?”

  “Lucky’s son. He runs the club Mood in The Keys. We’re tight. Maybe we should stop by for a drink.”

  Tight. What did that mean? This girl spoke a language he didn’t understand and certainly didn’t want to. However, since she knew the Santangelo family, she could turn out to be useful.

  “What do you think?” Annabelle asked, tilting her head to one side.

  “I think we should go to my villa first. Spend some private time.”

  Annabelle considered his offer. She didn’t want sex—followed by no phone call. Oh, no, that wouldn’t do at all.

  On the other hand, Armand was one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, and perhaps the timing was right to give him another chance. What did she have to lose?

  “One drink,” she said brightly. “Then on to Mood. Is that a plan?”

  Armand nodded.

  Why did God give women the ability to speak? Why couldn’t they just keep their stupid mouths shut?

  * * *

  Once Peggy captured her prize—Gino’s sneezed-in napkin—she was anxious to end the dinner and get back to her suite.

  But Paige was having none of it. She was enjoying Peggy’s company, and suggested they move on to the Cavendish club for a nightcap.

  “I’m a little past nightclubs,” Peggy demurred.

  “If I can do it, so can you,” Gino wheezed. “I’m two hundred years old, hon. You’re a spring chicken.”

  For a moment Peggy was tempted to remind him of their one-night fling all those years ago. But good sense prevailed and she said nothing.

  “You see what I have to put up with,” Paige said with a complacent smile. “The man is tireless. He hardly ever sleeps.”

  “What? I should sleep my friggin’ life away?” Gino interrupted. “When I go, it won’t be quietly in the night, it’ll be in the middle of a fuckin’ party.”

  Paige shook her head. “Energy to burn,” she said. “If we could bottle it we’d make a fortune.”

  For a split second Peggy flashed onto a memory of Gino making love to her. Energy to burn indeed. He’d been an insatiable lover. Other men had paled in comparison, especially King Emir, who after a while had suffered from premature ejaculation—something that didn’t seem to bother him because he was a king, so who would dare to criticize?

  “I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt,” Peggy said, removing her powder compact from her purse and checking her appearance.

  “Not bad for an old broad,” Gino said with a lecherous chuckle.

  “I thought I was a spring chicken,” Peggy retorted. And for one quick moment she thought she spied a hint of recognition in his dark, all-knowing elderly eyes.

  * * *

  Carlos, the chief concierge at the Cavendish, a well-put-together Latin man, personally escorted Luscious and Seducta to Armand Jordan’s villa. The two women smelled of cheap perfume, musty sweat, cigarettes, and booze. Hardly a winning combination.

  Carlos was surprised to observe such low-rent women. Surely a man such as Armand Jordan expected better than these two?

  Luscious pranced around the living room on her cheap six-inch red hooker heels, a cigarette dangling from her overplumped lips. Her legs were bare, and on her left calf was a tattoo of a bodybuilder winking at no one in particular.

  “Where’s the … uh … mister?” she asked.

  “He’ll be here shortly,” Carlos replied, deciding it would not be wise to leave them alone in the villa. They looked like the type of women who—if left to their own devices—would steal anything that wasn’t locked down. “And this is a
no-smoking room,” he added. “So if you’d refrain—”

  “Fuck that shit,” Luscious said, boldly blowing a smoke ring in his face. “If I get cancer an’ die I promise not to blame you.”

  Seducta guffawed as she threw herself down on the couch, one streaky fake-tanned leg casually flung over the side. Her large breasts threatened to fall out of the flimsy top she was wearing, while her red, white, and blue G-string was fully on show. “I could go for a drink while we’re waitin’,” she said, winking meaningfully at Carlos.

  He glanced at his watch. Was he supposed to serve these two creatures drinks? Armand Jordan might be an excellent tipper, but he, Carlos, was nobody’s lackey. “Mr. Jordan will be here shortly,” he said. “It’s up to him if he wishes you to drink.”

  “For crissakes,” Luscious whined. “Lighten up. You’re a workin’ stiff, just like us. Get the stick out your ass and pour us a fuckin’ drink.”

  “Yeah, I’m parched,” Seducta agreed, sitting up. “One drink, an’ if you promise to behave, I’ll show you my titties.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh yeah, you do!” Seducta said, peeling down her top and revealing the largest fake boobs Carlos had ever seen.

  The women were disgustingly vulgar, but he was a man, after all, and the sudden stirring in his pants reminded him of that fact. He realized that he had to leave immediately before he did something to dishonor his lovely wife of six months. Let them steal; whatever they took, he would simply add onto Mr. Jordan’s bill.

  “The drinks cupboard is behind the bar,” he said, hurriedly backing toward the door. “Help yourselves.”

  “Bye, honey,” Seducta crooned, shaking her enormous bare breasts at him. “See you around!”

  * * *

  “What took place between you and the man you came to Vegas with?” Armand asked as he and Annabelle walked through the casino on their way outside to his villa. He wasn’t at all interested in anything she had to say, but faking it socially was a talent he’d cultivated over the years. Make them like you, then stick it to them—hard.

  “He was one of those hotshot Hollywood jerks,” Annabelle complained. “A lying prick who had me figured as a money machine for him to milk. Promised me my own reality show, then when we got here I discovered he’d not only pitched another celeb, but he was sleeping with her too.”

  Armand made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. As if he cared. He didn’t. Not one bit.

  “Tell me about the party tomorrow night—you say it’s for Lucky Santangelo’s daughter?”

  “That’s right,” Annabelle said. “Lucky dotes on Max. It’s all about ego—Max is like a little version of her mom.” She paused for a breath. “Surely you’re invited, considering you’re buying The Keys? I can’t imagine they wouldn’t invite you.”

  “I keep business separate from social occasions,” Armand stated. “And since you are one of the few people who know about my imminent purchase of such a prestigious property, I would appreciate your discretion, and trust that you will not mention it to anyone.”

  “Naturally,” Annabelle agreed, quite flattered that she was in the know, although disappointed that Armand obviously didn’t have an invite to the party.

  She threw him a sideways glance. He was an attractive man—not movie-star handsome like her dad, who was a well-established movie star, but not bad-looking, in a buttoned-down way.

  The mustache would have to go, a new haircut might help, and the way he dressed was old-fashioned and too formal. But she could get him into shape. He’d be quite a prize to return to New York with.

  Yes. Tonight she would seal this deal. No doubt about it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  If there was one thing that turned Gerald M. on, it was holding court with an attentive audience hanging on to his every word. He reveled in the spotlight—it shored up his escalating fear that his kind of music was becoming irrelevant. Diddy, Jay-Z, and Akon ruled. Plus, every week a new rap sensation hit the street.

  Gerald M.’s manager had not so subtly suggested that he might like to try taking a different direction—maybe make a CD of old standards like Rod Stewart had, or perhaps invite some happening rapper to join him on a track or two. But Gerald adamantly refused to even consider the idea. Soul was his thing. Good old-fashioned soul, which got the women hot and horny and the men laid.

  In Europe he was still an enormous star. In America—not so much. Although tonight his fans had come out in force and his assistant had collected an array of panties thrown onstage to prove it.

  Gerald M. was feeling on top of everything.

  Cookie wasn’t. Max was so right: Frankie Romano was a major star fuck. He was all over her dad as if Gerald M. was the second coming. She was being ignored, and it was pissing her off big-time.

  Max—who was now back at the table—bit her tongue so as not to blurt out I told you so. Frankie’s always been this way. He’s a major loser.

  “What’s up with his crap?” Cookie complained. “He’s all actin’ like a freakin’ fan. I can’t even watch it!”

  “Most people get like that around stars,” Max offered matter-of-factly. “When Lucky owned Panther Studios, kissing ass was a daily occurrence.”

  “He’s, like, so ignorin’ me,” Cookie said, her eyes flashing daggers.

  Although Max was trying to concentrate on what Cookie was saying, to her horror she suddenly observed Venus making a grand entrance.

  Ohmigod. Lucky’s best friend. Billy’s soon-to-be ex. Ohmigod!

  Quickly turning to Cookie, she said, “Y’know what? We should take off, teach your boyfriend to pay you more attention. Besides, Bobby’s getting all uptight ’cause he doesn’t want us in the club on account of his precious license, so we can’t even dance or score a drink, plus my parents are all over me, so whyn’t we hit one of those clubs where we can do what we like an’ not be under constant scrutiny.”

  “Yeah,” Cookie agreed, still shooting Frankie dirty looks. “Let’s go. I’ll show Frankie Romano who he’s screwing with!”

  * * *

  Sitting next to Lucky Santangelo, Denver felt all her insecurities come rushing back. Bobby had just told her he loved her, followed by the instant intrusion of the irritating and rude Max, and now Lucky and Lennie Golden had joined them. She was overwhelmed, even more so because Lucky was extremely friendly and nice, not to mention totally stunning.

  Likewise Lennie.

  It was all too much.

  “So…” Lucky said to Bobby, smiling warmly across at Denver. “This is the woman you’ve been keeping a big secret.”

  “No secret,” Bobby replied with a sheepish grin. “You’ve met, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe once,” Lucky said, sipping a martini. “Very briefly.”

  “Well, we certainly haven’t met,” Lennie said, extending his hand to Denver. “It’s a real pleasure. Where has Bobby been hiding you?”

  If she was intimidated before, Denver now felt completely out of her depth. Lennie Golden was a force unto himself. She was a longtime fan of his movies, which only made things worse. How embarrassing to find herself trapped in this situation. Wasn’t it enough that they would all be together the following night?

  Oh God! Why hadn’t she pursued a relationship with laid-back, uncomplicated Sam? Why had she picked Bobby?

  Or had he picked her?

  She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. She was confused.

  “Bobby tells me you’re a DA,” Lucky said, leaning toward Denver as if she were really interested in hearing her reply.

  “Uh, Deputy DA, actually. That’s what they, uh, call us.”

  Oh great, I sound like the idiot girlfriend who comes to Vegas with one dress. And now what am I supposed to wear tomorrow night? And Bobby’s mom is too gorgeous for words—slim and sexy in a sliver of a top and black leather pants, with numerous diamond bracelets stacked up her toned and tanned arm, and a huge emerald ring on her engagement finger. She looks like some ki
nd of exotic supermodel.

  “You should meet my brother Steven,” Lucky said. “He’s living in Rio at the moment, but when he visits, we must all get together.”

  What the hell—was Lucky trying to fix her up? Please, no!

  “Steven was a DA,” Bobby hurriedly explained, noting her confusion.

  “Really?” Denver murmured.

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “You two probably do have a lot in common. Steven started out as a defense attorney, then felt it wasn’t right for him—just like you.”

  “You were a defense attorney?” Lennie asked, and he too seemed genuinely interested.

  “Yes,” she managed. “With Saunders, Fields, Simmons and Johnson in Beverly Hills.”

  “And you switched because?”

  “I was, uh, one of the defense attorneys for Ralph Maestro. It became … complicated.”

  God, she was actually sitting in a nightclub in Vegas chatting away to the Lennie Golden.

  “I can imagine,” Lennie said, reaching for Lucky’s hand and squeezing it.

  Apparently they are the perfect couple, Denver thought. Still in love and don’t care who knows it.

  Could she and Bobby ever achieve that kind of closeness?

  Yes! Stop wimping out and embrace what we have together.

  Before she could give herself more of a pep talk, here came a test in the form of a curvy brunette poured into an equally curvy outfit. The girl approached Bobby from behind, covered his eyes with her well-manicured hands, and cooed, “Guess who?”

  To his credit, Bobby didn’t panic. He stayed calm, removed the girl’s hands, and glanced up at her. “Hey, Gia,” he said, without taking a beat. “Have you met my girlfriend, Denver?”

  Gia’s smile froze. Denver could almost see the thoughts flying through the girl’s head. Girlfriend? What’s that about? Bobby’s a player. No fun to be had here.

  “No,” Gia said at last. “I wasn’t aware that you—”

  Not allowing Gia to finish her sentence, Bobby was on his feet, walking her away from their cabana.

  “Hazard of the business,” Lucky remarked dryly, noting Denver’s discomfort.