Double Lucky (63 page)

“That crying bitch deserved everything she got,” Armand said, dropping his robe. “I took care of her in ways she won't soon forget.”

“Does it not worry you that she might tell her husband?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Fouad. She came here of her own free will. She wanted it. She was begging for it. Now remove the DVD from the camera, make two copies, and put them in my safe.”

“Yes, Armand,” Fouad said. He would make three copies and keep one for himself. Nothing like insurance when dealing with a man like Armand.

“And The Keys?” Armand said, unabashedly naked as he stepped into the all-marble shower. “What's happening?”

“I have several calls in,” Fouad said, not wishing to reveal that he'd spoken to the owner's attorney, and that he'd been informed that it was highly unlikely The Keys was for sale.

“What is taking so long?” Armand demanded as four powerful showerheads rained down on his body.

“You only told me you wanted to buy it two days ago,” Fouad pointed out. “There are times it is prudent to be patient.”

Armand stepped out of the shower dripping wet. “I am not a prudent man, Fouad. You above all people should know that.”

Fouad noted the prince's large appendage and attempted to avert his eyes, even though he'd seen it many times before. The prince, like his father the king, was not shy.

“I understand, Armand,” he said evenly. “I am on top of it.”

“You'd better be,” Armand responded, vigorously toweling himself dry. “Whatever the price, I am prepared to pay.”

“Of course,” Fouad agreed, because agreeing was simpler than arguing.

“How is your wife?” Armand asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Fouad hesitated for only a moment. He had no wish to discuss his wife with Armand. He was well aware that Armand did not approve of his marriage. Armand thought he had made a mistake marrying an American girl. But Fouad adored his wife and two little children, and nothing Armand could say would ever change that.

“Alison is very well,” he answered carefully.

“Hasn't cheated on you yet?” Armand said with a spiteful smirk.

Fouad maintained a steely silence.

“All American women cheat on their husbands eventually,” Armand stated. “Look at the whore I just threw out. She's a classic example of a rich bitch with an itchy cunt.”

Fouad chose to ignore Armand's crass remarks. Sometimes he found them difficult to understand, considering that Armand's own mother was an American. But then Armand's relationship with his mother had always been something of a problem.

“Go make some phone calls,” Armand said, abruptly dismissing his faithful right-hand man. “And before the end of the day, I wish to know that The Keys is mine.”

 

CHAPTER SIX

“What's going on today? Anything I should know about?” Denver asked Leon, a young detective with whom she'd become friendly. It was Leon who had encouraged her to transfer to the drug unit, a move she was excited about.

Leon was African American and quite laid-back. He was excellent at his job, and had helped her get acclimated when she'd first arrived. They had a good buddy thing going on, which she hoped would last because sometimes she had a sneaking suspicion that Leon was on the verge of asking her out.

Please don't
, a little voice whispered in her head.
I'm taken. Besides, it would be awkward.

Not that Leon wasn't attractive. He was. He had a kind of chill Will Smith vibe going for him, and the ladies were always giving him the look. Denver ribbed him a lot. He acted bashful, but she knew he was a stud at heart.

“There's a hostage deal happening,” Leon explained. “Some Mexican drug pusher grabbed his baby and barricaded himself in his house with an arsenal of weapons. I'm goin' over there now. They've had to clear the neighborhood an' close the street.”

“What else is new?” Denver asked, immediately thinking how blasé she sounded. And well she should, because if it wasn't a hostage situation, it was a random shooting or a gang initiation or a murder or a high-speed car chase. Things were going on all the time, and she could not believe how isolated she'd been working at a top Beverly Hills law firm, where the main excitement of the day was some coked-out Hollywood starlet with two DUIs trying to dodge jail time, or a boring client lunch at Spago.

“Not enough for you, huh?” Leon said with a wide grin. “An' how come you was late this morning?”

“I … uh…”

“Boyfriend in town?” he asked, leaning his elbows on her desk.

“Yes. Bobby's here,” she admitted, a touch sheepishly. “But that has nothing to do with—”

“Morning sex,” Leon said, his grin spreading. “Now,
that's
what I'm talkin' about.”

“Excuse me?” she said, pretending she had no clue what he was alluding to.

“You got the glow, girl,” Leon teased. “Comin' off you in waves.”

Damn! She knew she did, and there was nothing she could do about it. Whenever she had sex it was written all over her face for everyone to see. How annoying was
that?

“I have to work,” she said, powering up her computer. “So if you'll—”

“I'm outta here,” Leon said, throwing up his arms. “Out. Gone. Good-bye. Adios.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“Always,” he said.

As soon as Leon left, her thoughts drifted to Bobby. It was ridiculous, but whenever she wasn't with him, all she could do was think about him. So juvenile. It was almost as if they were back in high school, and who could forget those days? Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, the most popular boy in school. Football star, major jock, head of his class at everything. All the girls lusted after him, including her. But he'd never noticed her, hadn't even realized she existed. And now, ten years later, she was his actual girlfriend. How weird was that?

Stop thinking about Bobby and get to work.

Okay, okay, I will.

*   *   *

“You're up early,” Lucky said, regarding her daughter as Max came wandering outside onto the patio. The girl was all long bronzed legs, with a coltlike body. Her green eyes were still sleep-filled, her dark hair a cloudy mess. “Hard day's night?” Lucky questioned, thinking what a beautiful child she and Lennie had created. Although Max was no longer a child; she was a young woman getting ready to take off.

“What?” Max mumbled.

“A Beatles reference.”

“Wow, Mom, you can be so obscure,” Max complained, flopping into a chair.

“And good morning to you too,” Lucky said dryly.

Yawning, Max reached for a jug of orange juice.

“What were you up to last night?” Lucky inquired.

“You're not gonna question me, are you?” Max said, flashing her a disgusted look. “That would be so lame.”

“Why? You got something to hide?” Lucky replied, faintly amused.

“Oh yeah, like anyone could hide shit around you.”

“Nice,” Lucky said, thinking how much Max reminded her of herself as a teenager. Restless, full of sass, yearning for adventure, determined to do things her way yet still not quite sure of herself.

“Sorry,” Max allowed after a few moments of silence. “Crappy night.”

“That's okay,” Lucky said, taking the understanding route. “By the way, I spoke to your brother yesterday. He sends much love.”

“Bobby?” Max said, perking up.

“No, your other brother, Gino Junior. He's loving their trip; so is Leonardo. They're currently in Switzerland, skiing like mad. Apparently they're having a fantastic time.”

“Where
is
Bobby?” Max asked, wondering if she should tell him about Frankie. Or not. He'd probably be furious at her for taking Cookie and Harry to River in the first place. But how was
she
supposed to know it was Frankie's club? She wasn't a mind reader.

“Not sure,” Lucky said. “However, I do know he'll be at your birthday party in Vegas.”

“Mom…” Max ventured. “I've been thinking about it, and I'm not certain I want a party.”

“Do
not
even attempt to back out,” Lucky said firmly. “You're going to be eighteen. It's a big deal. Everyone will be there. Gino, Lennie, Bobby…”

“Is Bobby bringing his girlfriend?”

“Which one?”

“You know perfectly well which one. Denver. They're like a major hookup.”

“They are?” Lucky said vaguely.

“Oh
please!
” Max said, laughing. “You know it.”

“No, actually, I don't.”

“Wow! Then you're the only one who doesn't. Why do you think Bobby keeps coming to L.A. when his clubs are in Vegas and New York?”

“How do you know he keeps coming to L.A.?”

“'Cause I just do.”

Lucky was silent for a moment. She hadn't realized that Bobby was getting serious with anyone. She'd always thought that Bobby was the love 'em and leave 'em type, like his grandfather before him. He was still in his twenties, too young to tie himself down. She'd met Denver maybe once, but she hadn't taken much notice of the girl since—like all the others before her she hadn't thought Denver would be around for long. Apparently she was wrong. Therefore if Bobby was bringing her to Max's party, she'd better make some kind of effort to get to know her.

What really surprised her was that Bobby was—according to Max—spending a lot of time in L.A. and not even calling.

Who was this girl? And what kind of hold did she have over Bobby?

It was obviously time to find out.

*   *   *

“So you're gonna have a baby,” Bobby said as he and M.J. made their way into the art deco glass elevator that led them upstairs to Mood. “That's really something. Daddy M.J. Never thought the day would come!”

“Yeah,” M.J. said ruefully. “Kinda weird, huh?”

“Getting married in Vegas overnight was kinda weird,” Bobby pointed out. “Starting a family goes right along with marriage. But what the hell, 's long as you're happy.”

“Couldn't be happier,” M.J. answered without taking a beat.

“You're sure?” Bobby said, shooting M.J. a quick look and thinking that he didn't seem exactly ecstatic.

“Course I'm sure,” M.J. said, hesitating for a moment before adding, “except for maybe one minor detail.”

“An' that would be?”

“Cassie doesn't want to have a baby right now,” M.J. blurted. “She keeps on threatenin' to get an abortion.”

Bobby frowned. “You're screwing with me, right?”

“'Fraid not. An' what the fuck am I supposed t' do about
that?
”

“Shit, man,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “How would
I
know?”

“It's a problem,” M.J. admitted. “A big fuckin' problem.”

“You got plans to solve it?”

M.J. gave a helpless shrug. “I'm playin' it strong. Tellin' her if she goes ahead an' does that—we're over.”

“Seriously?”

“I'm dead serious.”

“Well,” Bobby said, finding himself at a loss for words, “I gotta wish you luck, man. Seems like you're gonna need it.”

The elevator came to a stop and they stepped into the reception area of Mood.

Bobby glanced around. It always gave him a feeling of achievement to note what he and M.J. had accomplished. Their club was sleek and sexy; it featured spacious booths with muted gold leather banquettes imported from Italy, Brazilian wood tables, smoky-mirrored walls, and clever lighting supplemented with glowing candles. And in the middle of everything was the pool, surrounded by private dinner cabanas—
the
place to be seated. And of course a state-of-the-art sound system, the best that money could buy. The entire vibe screamed style and class, comfort and fun.

Since its opening, Mood had become
the
club of choice for visiting Hollywood celebrities, high rollers, affluent Vegas locals, and showbiz performers when their shows finished and they were looking for somewhere to hang and relax. Tourists had a hard time getting in. Privacy was the name of the game.

Yes, Mood was banging—the very best.

“Remember Sukie in high school?” M.J. ventured, heading toward the bar. “The girl I knocked up?”

“Turned out to be a false alarm, right?” Bobby said, following him.

“Uh, no,” M.J. said. “I didn't tell you 'cause you were taking off to spend the summer in Greece with your other family. Besides, Sukie swore me to secrecy.”

“Man, why didn't you say something?” Bobby said earnestly. “I would've been there for you, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” M.J. said, going behind the bar and opening one of the fridges. “But we had to do something fast, 'cause by that time, Sukie was almost four months.”

“What
did
you do?” Bobby asked, perching on a bar stool.

“The janitor at school told us 'bout this midwife downtown,” M.J. said, extracting a couple of cans of Diet Coke. “He told us that for five hundred bucks, she'd take care of it. No problem.” He slid a can of Diet Coke across the bar to Bobby.

“And?” Bobby said, opening the can.

“We drove to a run-down house in some shit neighborhood, where an old Chinese woman took us inside, bundled Sukie into what she called her ‘operation room,' an' demanded the cash.”

“Jeez! Did you even have it?”

“Uh-huh. I stole it from my dad's dresser that mornin'. Had no other way of getting the money.”

“Then what?”

“For a start, we were both scared shitless.”

“I bet you were.”

“Anyway, I handed over the cash an' waited. After a while the old crone comes walkin' back into the room where I'm sitting. This time she's carryin' a big bucket, an' in it was the dead baby. She fuckin'
showed
it to me, like it was some kinda prize. ‘You see,' she says—like she's proud or somethin'. ‘All done.'”