Double Lucky (11 page)

“Huh?”

“With me,” she said firmly. “That's an order.”

“And where are you taking me?” he asked, playing along.

“Somewhere we can lock the door. How's that for a plan?”

He grinned. “Now,
that's
the girl I married.”

“You'd better believe it!”

*   *   *

And out on the highway Max drove too fast, just like her mother.

Today she was into rap. Loud, throbbing, ear-splitting rap played mega volume in her car—the amazing BMW sports car her parents had bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Lucky had been against her getting a sports car, but Lennie had soon persuaded her. Lennie had to be the coolest, most laid-back dad in the world. He could talk Lucky into anything—which was why Max realized she should have gone to Lennie in the first place instead of asking Lucky if she could go to Big Bear.

But hey—whatever. Here she was sitting in her BMW on her way to Big Bear heading for an adventure. No problemo. No
way
. This was major exciting!

Giggling to herself, she turned the volume even higher.

Internet guy, here I come. I hope you're good and ready!

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I shall be going away this weekend,” Henry informed his mother. He was standing in the imposing front hallway of the Pasadena mansion wearing khaki pants and a mud-brown shirt. His prematurely thinning hair was plastered down, and he carried a large canvas hold-all. Henry was not handsome, nor was he ugly—he was merely quite ordinary-looking with no distinguishing features.

Penelope was shocked and at the same time secretly pleased, because much as she tolerated having Henry around, she realized that it was not exactly healthy for him to never leave the house, especially for a boy of his age—man really, for Henry was almost thirty.

“Where are you going?” she inquired.

“To visit friends,” he answered vaguely.

Friends? Henry didn't have any friends, at least none that she knew of.

“How long will you be gone?” she asked, adjusting a tall vase of tulips perched on an antique table.

“It depends,” he said evasively.

“Have you met a girl?” she asked. “Because if you have, I wish to meet her before you even
think
of getting involved. Remember what I have always told you about girls, Henry. When they look at you, all they see is dollar signs. You are a Whitfield-Simmons, and do not ever forget it.”

As if he could. She'd drilled it into him since he was six. He was a Whitfield-Simmons, and one day he would inherit the Whitfield-Simmons fortune.

“Maybe,” he replied, refusing to look her in the eye. “I'll phone you, Mother, and let you know when I'll be back.”

“Very well, Henry, I certainly hope you have a pleasant time.”

“I think I will,” he said, limping toward the door. “As a matter of fact, I'm sure I will.”

“Look after yourself, dear,” Penelope said, her attention drifting back to the tulips, which seemed in dire need of fresh water.

“I always do,” Henry muttered, aware that his mother was no longer listening to him.

He exited the house and stood for a few minutes in the circular driveway.

Markus, his mother's chauffeur, appeared. “Can I help you, Mr. Henry?” Markus asked. He was black and subservient, and had been with the Whitfield-Simmons family since before Henry was born. Shades of
Driving Miss Daisy
, Henry thought. He knew plenty about movies, because apart from his time spent hunched over his computer, he was a movie buff, fascinated by old movies, and especially horror classics such as
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
, and every one of the Freddy films.

“No help needed, thank you, Markus,” he said. “I shall be away for the weekend.”

Markus's bushy eyebrows shot up. “That's nice, Mr. Henry, a nice change for you.”

“Yes, it is,” Henry agreed.

“What car will you be wanting to take?” Markus inquired.

“Mother's Bentley.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Henry,” Markus said, looking dismayed and beginning to sweat. “Mrs. Penelope won't allow that. She's given me strict orders—”

“I understand, Markus. I was merely joking.”

“Yes, Mr. Henry, I knew that,” Markus said, thoroughly relieved. “You was joking with me.”

“I'll take the Volvo.”

“Certainly, Mr. Henry, I'll bring it round to the front.”

“That's okay, I'll get it myself.”

“If you're sure…”

“I'm sure.”

Henry walked around the side of the house where the cars were lined up in a row of garages. There was his mother's shiny royal blue Bentley, also a pristine black Cadillac she used when she considered the Bentley too flashy to take on one of her charity jaunts downtown, and next to the Cadillac, a gray Mercedes SUV for shopping trips.

The dark brown Volvo lurked in a corner spot. It was the car out-of-town guests used when they came to stay, and sometimes Markus was allowed to take it out. Ever since his accident Henry had not wanted a car of his own; there was no point since he wasn't going anywhere.

But today he was. Oh yes, today he was off on a mission, and he had to admit that getting out of the house was quite exhilarating.

Opening the trunk of the Volvo, he carefully placed his canvas holdall inside. It contained everything he needed for a very interesting weekend indeed.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Vegas and Anthony Bonar were a good match.
What's not to like?
Anthony thought whenever he visited the desert city.
Gambling, spectacular shows, fine restaurants, and beautiful women
—
plenty of hot, sexy, ready-to-do-anything babes.

Not that he was looking, he had enough to deal with juggling Emmanuelle and Carlita—Irma didn't count. But even though he wasn't on the hunt, Vegas was Vegas, and if some ready-to-rock piece of ass took his fancy, why turn it down? Viagra meant never having to say you were too tired.

He didn't need the damn blue pills, but after trying Viagra a couple of times he'd become addicted to the major hard-on that never quit. Emmanuelle and Carlita did not object, in fact quite the opposite—the two of them begged him for more.
Insatiable bitches
, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk.

The first woman he'd ever screwed was a whore plying her trade on the streets of Naples. It had happened a few weeks before his twelfth birthday and he was already ragingly horny. The whore had beckoned him into an alley—snatched his money, which he'd stolen from his mother's purse, and screwed him standing up. Fast and furious, that was the way she'd liked it. He'd realized then and there that was the way
all
women liked it.

He'd never changed his sexual style. Fuck 'em hard and fuck 'em long. The story of his success with women.

Renee Falcon Esposito, joint owner of the Cavendish Hotel, had sent a limousine to the airport. Renee and he went way back to the days she was married to Oscar Esposito, the Colombian billionaire politician, a man who'd met his fate by being tossed from a moving plane after trying to pull a double cross on an extremely powerful and vengeful drug lord. Since Anthony had been banging Renee on the side, she'd immediately turned to him for help. He'd never revealed to her that he was part of the plot to get rid of Oscar, but he
had
helped her flee Colombia with the money she'd inherited from her deceased husband—not to mention several safe-deposit boxes stuffed with illegal cash, which he'd persuaded her she had to split with him.

He'd moved Renee back to her hometown, Las Vegas, where she'd eventually hooked up with another mega-bucks female, Susie Rae Young, the widow of famous country singer Cyrus Rae Young. The two of them had formed a life partnership
and
built their dream hotel in which Anthony had declared himself a silent partner.

That was over ten years ago, and business was excellent, so Renee had not taken much convincing that the Keys was a direct threat and could pull away many of their best customers. Anthony insisted they had to do something drastic to stop the Keys from opening. He'd come up with an idea of how to do this. It was a costly plan, but it would be totally effective. Anthony had agreed to pay half of the million bucks it would cost them to have an expert blow up the complex—one building at a time. He had no intention of paying his half. Let Renee foot the entire bill. She owed him.

The hotel limo was waiting on the tarmac alongside his plane. The driver was a tall Swedish blonde dressed in black leather from her knee-high boots to the jaunty cap sitting on top of her head.

“Welcome back to Vegas, Mr. Bonar,” she said in a throaty, accented voice. “I will be your driver while you are here.”

He barely glanced in her direction.

“My name is Britt,” she continued, handing him a small silver cell phone. “All my numbers are programmed in. I'm on duty twenty-four hours a day. Call whenever you need me, I'm at your disposal.”

Anthony tossed the phone to The Grill, a move not lost on the blonde, who pretended not to notice.

“Straight to the hotel, Mr. Bonar?” she inquired, holding open the door.

“Yeah,” he said, climbing in the back. “An' no conversation.”

The Cavendish was a small—by Vegas standards—boutique membership-only luxury hotel catering to extreme high rollers, sports and movie stars, plus high-powered moguls and executives. Very few of the general public were allowed in. The gambling was exclusive, as was the hotel, which had a reputation for supplying all services a guest required. “The best of everything” was the hotel's motto, and that included any known drug, and the highest-priced call girls in the city. Renee ran a tight operation, with major security all around.

Renee herself was standing in the cool marble lobby of her hotel waiting to greet him. Every time he saw her, Anthony couldn't help marveling at the woman's transformation. When he'd first met her, Renee had been Oscar Esposito's American trophy wife, a curvaceous former showgirl with teased blond hair, long legs, and large breasts. Definitely fuckable. Definitely a babe. Now she weighed well over two hundred pounds, wore her hair in a severely cropped dark brown bob, and her implants were long gone. Renee was a different woman. A tough dyke who'd carved a niche for herself in Vegas as a canny businesswoman with a life partner who was even richer than her. All she and Anthony had between them now was business, and that's the way it suited both of them.

“Anthony,” Renee greeted. “My favorite bad boy.”

“Renee,” Anthony responded. “My favorite dyke.”

Renee had stones, an admirable quality in a woman, although Anthony wasn't too sure about the lesbian thing. Surely she missed cock?

“Smooth flight?” Renee inquired.

“Not bad,” Anthony replied, his eyes flicking around the lobby, checking things out.

“I've put you in Bungalow One. I thought we'd meet for dinner, Susie's excited to see you.”

“I ain't here to socialize, Renee,” he reminded her gruffly. “I'm here to make certain everythin's in place.”

“I can assure you it is,” Renee replied, irritated that he would doubt her. “You told me to hire Tucker Bond, and I did. We're paying for the best, Anthony. Half up front, and the rest when the job is done.”

“I don't want no fuckups,” Anthony growled.

“I don't allow for fuckups,” Renee responded.

“Yeah?”

“I'm as concerned as you are,” she said, annoyed that Anthony had a way of speaking down to her that she did not appreciate.

*   *   *

Once Anthony was settled into the luxurious bungalow with its own private swimming pool and a bar stocked with the finest brands of liquor and wine, he placed another call to Carlita.

This time his sexy Italian mistress picked up.

“Where the fuck ya bin?” he demanded, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table.

She made up some excuse about visiting a sick relative.

“So sick ya couldn't pick up ya fuckin' cell?” Anthony said, frowning.

Once again Carlita had an answer, telling him that her phone had a low battery or some such shit.

He said nothing. He was pleasant, affectionate even, although he had a strong gut feeling that the douche bag was cheating on him.

As soon as he put the phone down, he called one of his minions in New York and issued an order to have Carlita followed. “Whatever she's doin', I wanna know 'bout it,” he instructed. “An' if you find her doin' anythin' she shouldn't, get me photos, proof. Do whatever you gotta do t'bring me the goods.”

If she was innocent of screwing around on him, nothing lost.

And if the
puttana
was guilty …

Well, if she was guilty, it was her funeral.

*   *   *

Irma's second session with Luis was all she had hoped for and more. It was late afternoon, she'd sent the housekeeper out, the old gardener was still away, and the guards were stationed at the front of the house with Anthony's two ferocious Dobermans.

“I need you to look at my indoor plants. Follow me,” she'd informed Luis, who still hadn't understood a word she'd said, although he'd certainly understood what “Follow me” meant.

As soon as they'd reached the privacy of her bedroom, she'd locked the door behind them. Luis hadn't hesitated. He'd ripped the clothes from her body with feverish haste, then he'd begun divesting his own garments as fast as he could get them off.

Words were not spoken.

Words were not needed.

Once she was naked, he'd leaned her back against the wall, spread-eagling her legs.

Propped against the wall with her legs apart, she'd felt exposed, vulnerable, and unbelievably sexually excited.