Double Lucky (74 page)

“Wassup?” Cookie mumbled in her best innocent voice—the voice she used when she knew she was in trouble.

“
C'mon
,” Max complained, having finally reached Cookie after sending four texts—all ignored. And now, miraculously, Cookie had answered her cell. “You ran out on me, left me to clean up a huge freaking mess. You
know
they trashed my house big-time, how could you not?”

“They did?” Cookie said, maintaining her innocent approach. “I didn't know that. I was busy with Frankie.”

“Of course you were,” Max said heatedly. “In
my
bedroom. Thanks a lot. You left coke residue all over my bathroom sink.
And
you used my freaking bed. You're gross!”

“What makes you think it was me?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe 'cause you an' Harry are like the only two who knew where I hid the keys.”

“Forgive me!” Cookie said, going all pseudo dramatic. “Can I help it I wanted to get laid by my
boyfriend?
”

“Frankie Romano is
so
not your boyfriend,” Max scoffed.

“Yes he is,” Cookie argued. “Check out RadarOnline and Perez. Our photo is all over the place.”

“You
gotta
be delusional.”

“Would I make it up?”

“Your dad's gonna freak.”

“My dad doesn't give a shit,” Cookie said matter-of-factly. “He's too busy being his famous self.”

“Anyway,” Max said, deciding it was prudent
not
to tell Cookie about her and Billy. Cookie had a big mouth, and it was definitely best not to trust her. “No Vegas today. We're going tomorrow morning. I changed our flight.”

“Hmm … about Vegas,” Cookie ventured, hesitating for a moment. “Here's the thing—”

“What?” Max said sharply. “Don't you
dare
bail on me. I'll freaking
kill
you.”

“Is it cool if I invite Frankie?”

“
Why
would you want to do that?”

“'Cause, duh, didn't I just tell you? He's my
boyfriend.
”

“But didn't
I
just tell
you
Frankie and Bobby aren't talking?”

“Then this would be the perfect opportunity for them to chill,” Cookie said, perking up. “Frankie told me that he really misses Bobby. It wasn't as if there was a huge fight. They just kinda drifted apart. After all, they
were
best friends.”

“I don't know…” Max answered unsurely. “I thought M.J. was his best friend.”

“M.J., Frankie … they were all kind of a team. An' besides, it's
your
birthday party,” Cookie said, turning up the pressure. “Which means that basically it's up to you whether Frankie comes or not.”

“You think?”

“Yes, Max. An' it's not as if I ever ask you for anything.”

“Yes you do,” Max objected. “All the time.”

“You
gotta
do this for me,” Cookie pleaded. “Do it, an' I'll owe you big-time.”

Max weakened. Why not? It wasn't as if she hated Frankie or anything. And since it was Frankie who'd brought Billy to the party …

“Fine,” she said at last, adding a stern “Only no drugs—save that for your quality time together.”

“You're
such
a star!” Cookie squealed. “Frankie will be like majorly psyched, and I promise we'll leave all illegal substances at the door. Deal?”

“Deal,” Max agreed, hoping that Bobby wouldn't be too mad.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Naturally, Armand chose to blame Fouad for his mother wishing to accompany him to Vegas. Someone had to be held responsible for her infuriating request. Not even a request, more a statement of intent—“I am coming with you,” she'd said in a take-no-prisoners tone of voice.

Dammit! What did she want from him?

Armand was furious, but he'd acquiesced all the same, since he'd never been able to say no to Peggy. Whenever he was in her presence, he felt less of a man, more of a boy. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing he could do about it, it had always been that way.

His childhood memories were not pleasant. A few weeks after his eleventh birthday, Peggy had caught him torturing the neighbor's cat, whereupon she'd forced him to pull down his pants in front of several of her friends and whipped him on the butt a dozen times with a thick leather belt. He'd barely been able to sit down for a week.

The deep humiliation mixed with the intense pain and the fear of his mother had stayed with him for a very long time. After that, whenever he did anything bad, he made sure she never found out.

On their return trip to the airport, Armand had Fouad alert their driver to stop and pick up Peggy. She sashayed out to the limousine accompanied by five pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage. As usual she was dressed for attention, wearing a yellow Valentino suit and matching Louboutins, her flaming-red hair setting off her pale skin.

Armand tried not to breathe in her overpowering scent. The familiar smell sickened him; it reminded him of when they'd moved from Akramshar to New York, and she'd insisted that every morning he jumped into her bed for a cuddle. The cuddle had involved the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him while her strong perfume completely enveloped him. He was eight years old, and the smell had lingered in his nostrils all day long. Childhood memories did not please him.

“Peggy,” he said, greeting her stiffly, using her name because the moment he'd hit his teenage years she'd requested that he no longer call her Mother, claiming it made her feel old. So Peggy it was.

“Mrs. Dunn,” Fouad said, always polite and proper. “It is so nice to see you again. I feel that it's been too long.”

Armand shot him a disgusted look. How dare Fouad encourage her, make her feel welcome? She was not welcome at all.

“Nice to see you too, Fouad. Tell me, how is your lovely family?” Peggy inquired, always gracious.

“Very well, thank you for asking,” Fouad replied.

“I only wish Armand would find a nice girl and settle down.” Peggy sighed. “You are a shining example, Fouad. I admire you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunn.”

“Why this sudden interest in coming to Vegas?” Armand asked, his tone brusque.

“Why not?” Peggy said, delighted she'd made the decision to accompany her only child to Vegas. “It was once my home, you know,” she added, looking forward to revisiting the city she'd been plucked from as an eighteen-year-old girl.

Forty-two years had passed, but Peggy had never forgotten her life back then. As a dancer in one of the most popular shows in town, she'd received more than her share of attention. With her red hair and delicate white skin she'd been quite the standout; men could not get enough of her. And then King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan had swooped into town and claimed her for himself. He'd plied her with gifts and jewelry, and she'd allowed herself to be swept up in the dazzle. It was mysterious and exciting, like a fairy tale. Without much thought, she'd accepted the king's proposal and gone with him to his country, leaving behind her pit boss boyfriend, Joe Piscarelli, who she'd always suspected was mob connected. When she told Joe she was leaving, he flew into a vile rage, called her a gold-digging cunt, and warned her to never set foot in Vegas again.

She hadn't until now.

Where was Joe Piscarelli forty-two years later?

Probably dead,
Peggy thought with a frisson of satisfaction.
Buried in a ditch somewhere in the desert. That would teach him to call her names.

Back in the day, Vegas was quite the place to be if you were a girl with big dreams. Her dreams had certainly materialized—marriage to a king, an enormously rich second husband, and a billionaire son. Not too shabby for a girl who'd come from nothing.

*   *   *

The flight to Vegas was turbulent. Armand was never bothered by things like that, but since becoming a father to his two children, Fouad hated turbulence. He white-knuckled his way to landing, then set about organizing the luggage to be loaded into the stretch limousine waiting on the tarmac alongside the plane.

Armand was annoyed that Peggy had brought so many suitcases with her. He sat in the back of the limo and fumed. “We're only here for a day or so,” he muttered. “Why did you feel the need to bring so much?”

“You never know,” she answered, with a vague wave of her hand. “I might stay awhile.”

Her statement alarmed Armand, for when he purchased The Keys, the last person he wished to have hanging around was Peggy. His mother belonged in New York, and that's exactly where he expected her to stay.

“What meetings do you have here, Armand?” she asked as the limousine sped away from the airport.

None of your damn business,
he would say if Peggy were a normal woman.

But she wasn't normal.

She was his mother.

The only woman he had ever feared.

*   *   *

Armand was situated in the Presidential Suite at The Keys. Four bedrooms, two living rooms, a sauna, a steam shower, five bathrooms, a fully equipped bar, a pool table, a game room, and a private rooftop swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was more luxurious than his New York apartment, and he decided that when he bought the place, he would use this suite as his own pied-à-terre while he built himself a magnificent mansion on the property.

There was no doubt in his mind that The Keys would be his. No doubt at all.

“Make certain Peggy stays elsewhere,” he'd instructed Fouad before arrival. “Book her into another hotel. Tell her The Keys is full.”

“Are you sure?” Fouad had asked.

“Of course I'm sure,” Armand had replied, annoyed that Fouad would question him.

Fouad had managed to arrange a one-bedroom suite for Peggy at the Cavendish, a neighboring hotel to The Keys. She was surprised when the limousine dropped her off first.

“No room at The Keys,” Armand said brusquely, shooting Fouad a
Why didn't you tell her?
look. Jesus Christ! Did he have to do everything himself?

“The whole point of my coming here was to spend more time with you, Armand,” Peggy complained, quite disappointed. “There are things we need to discuss.”

“It's unfortunate, but there is a big convention at The Keys,” Fouad explained, attempting to smooth things over. “No more suites available. And of course Armand did not wish to put you in a room. He requires only the best for you.”

Little did Peggy suspect that Armand would be occupying a suite with four bedrooms. If she'd known that, she would have insisted on staying with him.

“Very well,” she said, pursing her lips. “And what time will you be picking me up for dinner?”

Armand had not factored in taking Peggy to dinner. This was Vegas, home of the most expensive and inventive call girls in America. Girls who never balked at any request, however out of line. As long as the money flowed, anything was possible, and he'd been planning on taking full advantage. Armand's line of credit in Vegas was limitless, plus he always travelled with a suitcase full of cash in case of an unforeseen emergency.

Yes, he was ready to indulge himself, and now Peggy expected dinner? Goddammit! This was not the trip he had imagined.

“I thought you would be tired after the flight,” he said tersely. “Perhaps room service?”

Peggy threw him a scornful look. “Tired, Armand? Me? How
old
do you think I am? Eighty?”

“I didn't mean—”

“Pick me up at eight,” she ordered, cutting him off. “And make sure we go somewhere fancy. I plan on dressing up.”

The moment Peggy was out of the limousine, Armand issued more instructions. He handed Fouad an engraved card stamped with the name Yvonne Le Crane, a phone number, and an e-mail address. “Book two women to be in my suite at five. An Asian and a black girl, both under twenty-five,” he ordered. “I will keep them for two hours. Then at midnight, three more girls. White, preferably from Texas, with blond hair.”

Fouad was almost speechless. Since when had he been appointed head pimp? He was not an assistant, he was a vice president at Jordan Developments, a man who deserved at least a modicum of respect. Now Armand was instructing him to order up hookers? This was a ridiculous situation.

“I suggest you might want to make this phone call yourself,” Fouad said, swallowing his anger. “There could be questions I cannot answer. And I wouldn't want you to be disappointed.”

Armand considered Fouad's words and, surprisingly, agreed. Yes, he was specific when it came to the women he paid.
He
would call Yvonne Le Crane; that way he would get exactly what he required. No mistakes.

After all, he was a prince among men, and he expected only the best.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

A text from Bobby informed Max that she and her friends should meet in the private sector of LAX at noon the next day to take the Stanislopoulos plane to Vegas.

She was excited to go on Bobby's plane, and even more excited to spend time with her big brother, whom she adored.

As luck would have it, after she'd agreed that Cookie could bring Frankie to Vegas, Cookie had announced that they would be driving, since Frankie wanted to have his car there. Max considered this to be perfect, because turning up to meet Bobby with Frankie in tow might've been majorly awkward.

Harry was delighted about being invited on the private plane, and asked if Paco, who had a gig in Vegas, could hitch a ride too.

Max agreed, and then she thought,
Oh, great. Everyone will have someone in Vegas except me.

No time to think about that; her main concern was planning the perfect outfit to wear to Billy's house. Her closet contained a ton of options, none of them quite right. After rummaging through everything she possessed, she finally settled on skinny black jeans, a simple white tank top, and a black cashmere dance hoodie. Tough but cute. It was her look, especially when she added a dozen thin studded bangles, big earrings, a long leather necklace with crosses and shark teeth hanging from it, and a low-slung belt.