Double Lucky (60 page)

Now Armand was forty-two and becoming restless. He'd conquered the East Coast, and he desired more. His latest plans were to cement a firm position in Las Vegas, a city he'd spent some time in. He was an avid gambler, and the call girls in Vegas were raunchy and used to fulfilling any request, however decadent. Besides, he had family ties in Vegas. His mother had danced at Caesars Palace, and the king had spotted her there and whisked her back to Akramshar. Family ties had to mean something.

His people had done a financial analysis of most of the big hotels. While Steve Wynn's empire was intriguing and lucrative, and the Palms, the Four Seasons, and the Harrah's hotel groups were a possibility, the hotel complex he'd finally decided he had to have was The Keys.

Yes, The Keys was perfect. A magnificent structure built to extremely high standards less than two years previously. Not Vegas flashy, but incredibly luxurious and classy. A stunning casino. World-class restaurants and stores. Exquisite gardens, and park-like grounds. A magnificent apartment complex. Multiple swimming pools. Two spas. A man-made lake. A lush golf course. And then there was the hotel itself.

The Keys was it for Armand.

He wanted it, and therefore he would have it.

 

CHAPTER THREE

By the time she drove her distinctive red Ferrari down Pico and along P.C.H. to Malibu, Lucky had forgotten about Venus and her man-related issues. Her mind was more focused on Max and her imminent departure. Lucky was wise enough to realize that there was no holding her smart, gorgeous, green-eyed daughter back. Max was going out on her own whether Lucky and Lennie liked it or not. And the truth was, Lucky didn't like it, but there was nothing she could do. As everyone was quick to point out, she herself had been running wild at sixteen. After she ditched her strict Swiss boarding school and took off to the South of France, Gino had tracked her down and hurriedly married her off to the irritating and boring Craven Richmond—Senator Peter Richmond's son. Craven was a weak loser whom she hadn't loved, and even worse, had no respect for. But she'd refused to be trapped. She'd bided her time, and when Gino left the country on a tax exile, she'd broken all ties with the Richmond family and swiftly moved in to take over Gino's lucrative hotel business. She'd succeeded, gotten a divorce, and never looked back.

Now Max was ready to fly, but did her only daughter possess the street smarts to survive all the sharks who'd be circling such a major catch? And if Max chose to move to New York, how was Lucky supposed to protect her?

“You're not,” Lennie had informed her, always the voice of reason. “You gotta let Max go. She's ready to make her own mistakes and learn from them.”

Even Gino agreed. “Let her loose, kid,” he'd said. “She'll find her feet just like you did.”

So be it.

Even though it was past midnight, Max was not home.

Determined not to worry, Lucky picked up the phone and called Lennie, who was on location in Utah. They talked for a while; he soothed her fears about Max, told her not to obsess and that he'd see her in Vegas for the birthday party.

Lucky decided that for once she'd listen.

One big Vegas party, coming up. And after that she'd send Max on her way with her blessing and hope that everything worked out.

*   *   *

“Frankie?” Max yelled, making a wild dash toward the guy emerging from a Grand Sport convertible Corvette. “Is it really you?”

Frankie Romano stopped mid-stride, slowly lowering his mirrored Ray-Bans—an unnecessary accessory because it was dark out. The shades were merely an affectation.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, after scrutinizing her up and down. “Little Max?”

“Not so little anymore,” she answered boldly, remembering the last time she'd seen her brother's friend, the irascible Frankie Romano. He was thinner than she remembered, but his outfit was cool—all leather, retro shades covering his eyes, his dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Very L.A.

She gestured toward the entrance of the new club, where a restless gathering of girls dressed to seduce and a rowdy bunch of guys hoping to get laid attempted to talk their way past three burly security doormen. “Can you get me and my friends in?” she asked, throwing Frankie a winning smile.

“Hey,” Frankie said, with a nod of his head, “if I can't, nobody can. Follow me.”

Max grabbed Cookie's and Harry's arms, and without hesitation, they marched in behind Frankie.

The doorman gave Frankie a respectful salute.

“Wow!” Max exclaimed, suitably impressed. “They're acting as if you own the place or something.”

“I do,” Frankie boasted, although not truthfully. “It's mine, all mine.”

Max widened her eyes. The last she'd heard of Frankie, he'd been dumped by Annabelle Maestro, his longtime girlfriend, and was looking for a job. Now he claimed to own this happening new L.A. club. She wondered if Bobby was aware of it, because as far as she could recall, the two of them had fallen out due to Frankie's over-the-top drug habit. Too bad. She'd always sort of liked Frankie in a weird way, even though he'd tried to letch after her when she was sixteen and staying with Bobby in New York.

“Does Bobby know you're in the club business?” she asked as Frankie guided them straight to a booth.

“You think Bobby has dibs on running clubs?” Frankie responded, his left eye twitching beneath his shades. “I was deejaying before he ever got into the whole club scene. I would've given him a chance to invest in River, but we've been out of touch. His loss.”

“Guess he missed out,” Max said vaguely, checking out the club, which resembled a poor rip-off of Mood.

“Since your brother hooked up with that lawyer bitch, you gotta know he's totally pussy-whipped,” Frankie said gruffly. “She's got his balls in a clench. Came between us big time.”

“I thought it was—”

“What?” Frankie said, shooting her a sharp look.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, biting down on her bottom lip. Bobby had told her that Frankie's addiction to coke was not something he could deal with anymore, especially since Denver was a Deputy DA.

“So … little Max, all grown up,” Frankie said, moving close, his thigh pressing up against her leg. “Haven't seen you in a while. How've you been?”

“Amazing,” Max replied, edging away because the last thing she needed was Frankie coming on to her.

“You're looking hot,” he continued. “Smokin' hot.”

“Thanks,” she said, feeling uncomfortable. Was he stoned? Probably.

“Wow!” Cookie exclaimed. “This place is totally bangin'.”

Frankie turned his attention to her. “You like?” he said. “I designed the place myself.” Another lie.

“We like,” Cookie answered, nudging Harry while wondering how old Frankie was, and if he was too old for her. “Can we score a drink?”

“You got it,” Frankie said, snapping his fingers, grabbing the attention of a half-naked waitress with long talonlike nails and a fixed smile. “You all have your fake ID's on you, I hope.”

“Wouldn't be without them,” Cookie replied, licking her generous lips and fluttering her purple-tipped eyelashes.

“That's what I like to hear,” Frankie said, thinking that this one might be young, but she was certainly ready.

And what the hell? Young was his flavor of the night.

*   *   *

Pizza and a movie turned out to be sushi at Matsuhisa, a favorite of Denver's.

“I love this restaurant,” she said, helping herself to a California roll.

“Why do you think I chose it?” Bobby said, reaching for her hand across the table.

“'Cause you wanted to surprise me?”

“Ah, but she's so smart,” he said, dazzling her with one of his special smiles.

“And she's dressed for pizza and a movie,” Denver said ruefully.

“
And
she looks gorgeous,” he assured her.

“Thanks, Bobby,” she said, taking a sip of warm sake.

“For what?”

“For always making me feel good.”

“That's easy.”

“It is?”

“You
know
it is.”

“Don't
you
always know the right thing to say.”

“Speaking of the right thing—you
are
coming to Vegas with me next weekend for Max's party, yes?”

“I … I'm going to try,” she said, still hesitant.

“Whaddya mean, try?”

“Well … y'know, work…”

“I told you,” he said insistently, “we'll go Friday, come back Sunday. You won't miss a thing.”

“You have to understand, Bobby, transferring to the drug unit is kind of a big deal. I want to be fully prepared.”

“Like I said, you'll bring your laptop. We'll have plenty of downtime.”

“Can I think about it?” she asked tentatively.

“She'll think about it,” he said, exasperated. “Have I ever told you you're one stubborn woman?”

“Simply because I don't say yes to you all the time…”

“No, you don't, do you?” he said, giving her a long, intent look. “Is that why I like you?”

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess you're used to women saying yes at all times.”

Bobby started to laugh. “What
women
did you have in mind?”

“Remember high school? You and M.J. had it all going on. Girls falling out of trees.”

“Oh c'mon, Denver,” he said with a quizzical expression. “Now we're reverting to high school? How come you're remembering that now?”

“'Cause watching Mister Football Star score was the main entertainment of the day.”

“Then aren't I glad it's all behind me, an' now I've got you.”

“Really?” she teased. “You've got me, have you?”

“Don't I?” he said, grinning. “We've been together
how
long?”

“I dunno,” she said, knowing exactly how long. “Three months, maybe.”

Bobby shook his head. “‘Maybe,' she says! You're supposed to tell me to the minute.”

“I am, huh?”

“Yes, you am.”

They smiled at each other, savoring the moment.

One of the reasons she enjoyed spending time with Bobby was because they always had so much to talk about. He often regaled her with stories about his deceased father's family, who all resided in Greece, apart from his niece, Brigette. Brigette lived in New York and had once been a top model. Along with Bobby, Brigette had inherited most of the Stanislopoulos fortune. Although he was uncomfortable talking about money, Bobby had informed her that he'd chosen not to touch his inheritance, preferring to make his own money from the success of his clubs.

She admired him for his desire to make it on his own. Only occasionally did he indulge in any kind of extravagance—such as using the Stanislopoulos plane.

Sometimes she told him stories about
her
family, a family he still hadn't met. She was reticent about introducing him to her political activist mother and maverick lawyer father. Not to mention her three brothers. They'd all been very fond of her ex, Josh, and she didn't think she should add Bobby into the mix until she was sure they'd stay together for longer than a few months.

Bobby laughed about it. “Not good enough to meet your family, huh?” he teased.

“You will,” she assured him.

And yes, one day she would definitely bring him to meet them. But not yet. It was too soon.

“Bobby!” an exceptionally pretty model type exclaimed, stopping by their table. “Oh my
God!
I haven't seen you since Graydon's party in New York. How
are
you? What are you doing in L.A.?”

“Uh … hey,” Bobby managed. He didn't have a clue who she was, and he didn't much care. “Do you two know each other?” he said, gesturing toward Denver.

The girl threw Denver a cursory glance, then proceeded to ignore her. “We must get together,” she purred, leaning toward Bobby. “I miss you. Call me, I'm at the Mondrian.”

Then she tottered off on her six-inch heels, looking pleased with herself.

“Nice,” Denver remarked.

“I swear I don't know who she is,” Bobby insisted.

“That's okay,” Denver said, determined not to throw a jealous fit over nothing. “I have exes too.”

“She's not an ex,” he said firmly. “No idea w
ho
she is.”

“It doesn't matter, Bobby.”

“No, it doesn't,” he agreed. “All that matters is that I'm sitting here with you.”

The thing about Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos was that he always knew the right thing to say.

*   *   *

Max was ready to go, and so was Harry, but Cookie was putting up a fight. “I wanna stay,” she said stubbornly. “Frankie'll look out for me.”

“You can't stay,” Max argued. “We're in Harry's car.”

“I'll get a ride,” Cookie said.

“Oh, like who you gonna get a ride from?” Max snapped.

Cookie shrugged. “I'm sure Frankie'll drive me home.”

“For shit's sake!” Max exclaimed. “Don't you know that all Frankie wants is to get into your pants?”

“So?” answered Cookie with a slightly tipsy smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”

They were arguing in the booth several mojitos later. Frankie was off meeting and greeting, playing the genial host, and Max wasn't feeling it. She wanted out. So did Harry.

“We can't leave you here by yourself,” Max said, looking to Harry for some support.

“I told you, Frankie'll look after me,” Cookie said, leaning back in the booth.

“Frankie's a cokehead, an' he's old,” Harry sneered. “You don't wanna hit that.”

“He's
so
not old, an' he's hot,” Cookie insisted. “You two better get the fuck outta here, 'cause
I'm
stayin'.”