Double Lucky (75 page)

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if she looked any different.

Would anyone be able to tell that she'd finally done the deed?

No way.

“But I can tell,” she whispered to herself. “And it feels so right.”

Then Ace ruined everything by texting that he was driving into L.A. so that they could celebrate her birthday together.

Crap! She hadn't told him about Vegas. And she certainly wasn't planning on telling him about Billy. What was a girl supposed to do?

She quickly texted him back, hoping that he wasn't already on the road.
My mom wants me in Vegas,
she tapped out, keeping it vague.
Call you when I get back.

That should stop him. And when she did get back, she would give him the news that it was over between them.

Sorry, Ace. Too bad. It was fun while it lasted.

Meanwhile, she had Billy on her mind. She couldn't stop reliving their night together: their long conversations, the feel of his body next to hers. It was like some kind of awesome dream, a dream she never, ever wanted to stop.

Billy Melina. Who would believe it?

*   *   *

“Billy Melina. Who would believe it?” the reporter said as Billy slid into the booth beside her. The girl was in her late twenties, pretty in an aggressive way, with big boobs and an ultra-short skirt. She was on assignment from
Rolling Stone
, and she didn't seem to care that he was three hours late for their sit-down interview.

Bambi, his personal publicist, cared. So did the studio publicist. So did the groomer—hired for the day to make sure Billy looked his best at all times. They all hovered anxiously by the table, until Billy waved them away and told them to come back in an hour.

Girl reporter, whose name was Melba, repeated her words.

“Sorry I'm late,” Billy said, leaning back and ordering a Diet Coke. “Got hung up at the beach.”

“Were you getting laid?” Melba asked, licking her lips and giving him a flinty stare, as if she knew everything about him, or was about to.

“'Scuse me?” Billy said, narrowing his blue eyes. This one was determined to be confrontational, and he didn't like it. Dealing with female reporters could sometimes be tricky.

“I always like to start an interview off with a bang,” Melba said with a half smirk.

“Really?”

“Yes, I like to get down early on. Move in real close to my subject. The closer, the better.”

Was she propositioning him? Probably. Now that he was a big star, all the girls did. And the guys too, because naturally gay rumors abounded—as they did with every other young male star. He wasn't gay. Never tried it. Never had any desire to do so. Not that there was anything wrong with it.

Normally he might've contemplated taking this girl back to his house for the old blow-job-by-the-pool routine. But after being with Max, he wasn't feeling it. There was something about Max that was incredibly fresh and appealing, and he'd begun to think that it might be nice to get to know her. But there was a big problem—she was Lucky and Lennie's kid, and with the whole Venus divorce drama going on, dating Max was hardly about to fly.

He decided that he'd have to let her down easy. She was young and vulnerable, and seemed to like him a lot. He didn't want to hurt her, so he decided that when she came to pick up Lucky's Ferrari, he'd tell her he had another PR gig to go to and send her home.

“What's on your mind, Billy Melina?” Melba asked, licking her lips yet again. “You're not concentrating.”

“What's on yours?” he countered. Sit-down interviews were not his strong suit, and he had a bad feeling about this one.

“Your divorce,” Melba said, anticipating a juicy reply. “How nasty will it get?”

“Not at all on my part,” he said nonchalantly. “I'm fine with it.”

“No gory details?” Melba pressed. “Some salacious tidbit that nobody else knows?”

“Sorry to disappoint—no.”

“Shame. I would've thought being married to a controlling older woman would've produced all kinds of problems.”

“You heard it here first,” Billy said, keeping his cool and wishing he hadn't sent the PRs away. “No problems. And, uh … shouldn't we be talking about my movie?”

*   *   *

Sometimes Denver felt that she could cheerfully murder her family. They never let up on her all night with questions about Bobby.

When's he coming?

Why is he so late?

Who is this guy?

What exactly does he do?

You like him, you really like him.

She'd received a series of texts from Bobby full of excuses about cancelled and delayed flights, but she was disappointed by the time she headed home. Couldn't he have made more of an effort to meet her family for the first time? It pissed her off that he hadn't done so.

Amy Winehouse greeted her as if she'd been gone a year. A rush of happy barking, followed by wet doggy licks and kisses all over her face. It was comforting to feel wanted.

She took Amy for a walk around the block, and returned to find that Sam had left another message. He was certainly persistent.

And normal.

And attractive.

Why not go for him instead of the dazzlingly rich, too-handsome-for-his-own-good Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos?

Interesting question.

Easy answer.

I love Bobby, and that's all there is to it.

*   *   *

Prowling around Kennedy Airport was giving Bobby the distinct feeling that he was trapped in a maze of bars, fast-food restaurants, and donut and magazine stands, plus a hundred other useless stores. The flight he was supposed to be on had been canceled at the last minute, while the current flight he was booked onto kept getting delayed.

It occurred to him that he was an idiot not to have had the Stanislopoulos plane pick him up in New York. Such a dumb move. What was he thinking?

After trying to get on an earlier flight—fully booked—he made his way back to the lounge with the latest Harlan Coben thriller and attempted to read and chill out. But he soon found it impossible to concentrate—too much going on in his head. The new clubs he was planning to build were a real challenge. Exciting, but at the same time quite daunting. He'd conquered New York and Vegas with Mood, so bring on L.A. and Miami. After that, who knew?

His big ambition was to create an empire.
His
empire. And maybe, like Gino and Lucky before him, he would eventually move into the hotel business. He had in mind small boutique hotels that would cater to a distinct clientele, people who were looking for somewhere special and private.

“Bobby?”

He glanced up, and there stood Annabelle Maestro, Frankie's ex-girlfriend, now a minor TV personality since the murder of her movie-star mother and the arrest of her action-star father. Annabelle was a true child of Hollywood. She had written a book about growing up in L.A. with famous parents, and then all about the year she'd spent running call girls in New York. Like most people who became stars of reality television, she'd made a career out of simply being seen around, appearing on talk shows, and doing nothing much at all.

“Annabelle Maestro,” Bobby exclaimed, putting down his book. “How're
you,
stranger?”

Annabelle immediately sat down next to him without being invited to do so. “I'm doing so well it's ridiculous,” she gushed, pretty and powdered in a slightly plastic way, with her very long pale-golden-red hair, high cheekbones, and suspiciously plump lips.

Bobby had known her way before she'd hooked up with Frankie, along with M.J., Denver, and Carolyn; they'd all attended the same Beverly Hills high school.

“My schedule is completely insane,” Annabelle continued. “Ever since the success of my book.”

What book?
Bobby was tempted to say, but then he vaguely remembered Denver mentioning something about it.

“My Life: A Hollywood Princess Tells All,”
Annabelle said, reminding him of the title. “Currently out in trade paperback, which is why I'm in New York doing publicity. I was on
Watch What Happens Live
this week with the adorable Andy Cohen. Did you see it?”

Was she kidding?

“'Fraid not,” he said, opening a courtesy packet of nuts. “This has been a quick trip for me.”

“Trip?” she questioned, fluffing back her long hair. “I thought you lived in the city.”

“Uh … yeah, but now I kinda spend most of my time on the West Coast.”

“Hmm,” Annabelle said, giving him a piercing look. “Don't tell me you're still seeing Denver? That's a surprise.”

“Why is that a surprise?” Bobby asked, sensing that a bitchy response was headed in his direction.

“You know,” Annabelle said with a dismissive shrug. “Denver's hardly the girl I see by your side.”

“Yeah?” Bobby said, not about to put up with her crap. “And who
would
you see by my side?”

A coy giggle. “Someone like me.”

Jesus Christ, did she honestly imagine he would ever go for someone like her? All fake—from her hair extensions to her obviously enhanced cheekbones. No freaking way.

“The thing is,” Annabelle continued, unfazed by his lack of response. “You and I come from the same background. We're pedigrees, while I guess you would have to call Denver some kind of mutt.”

“Jesus, you're a real bitch!” Bobby exclaimed. “Are you listening to what you're saying?”

Annabelle shrugged. “The truth can be a harsh pill to swallow,” she said. And then, “Where's your plane? Shouldn't we be taking
that
to L.A.?”

Bobby abruptly stood up. “Go fuck yourself,” he said, loud and clear. And then he walked off.

*   *   *

Dinner with Gino again, not such a bad thing. This time, Paige, his third wife, was with him. And Jeffrey Lonsdale joined them, along with the owners of the Cavendish Hotel—a lesbian couple, Renee and Susie, whom Lucky liked very much. Renee was a ballsy old broad, and her partner, Susie, was an ex–Hollywood wife. They both had plenty to say for themselves, and Gino always enjoyed their company.

Lucky had organized a window table at François, the best French restaurant in Vegas. Since it was located at the top of The Keys, the view of the sparkling Las Vegas lights was breathtaking.

Sitting across the table from Gino, Lucky couldn't help staring at him and wondering what the hell she'd do without him. They had such a rocky history, but she loved him with every bone in her body, and she was fiercely protective of him, as he was of her. Over the years, they'd fought off many enemies from Gino's past, but in the end they'd reigned victorious, although it had not been an easy ride.

Lucky smiled thinking of the family motto,
Never fuck with a Santangelo
. They were words to live by.

Earlier, she'd called Max at the house to see how she was doing. No answer there. No answer on her cell. Lucky wasn't worried; Max could take care of herself. She'd thwarted that crazy pervert who'd attempted to kidnap her a year ago, and she'd come out a winner.

In her heart Lucky knew that Max was a true Santangelo and could protect herself come what may.

*   *   *

Max took a cab to Billy's house. Like most L.A. cabdrivers, her driver barely spoke English and drove as if he were involved in a high-speed car chase with cops inches behind him. The cab stunk of garlic, and the driver kept on muttering under his breath in a foreign language. Several times he applied the brakes so hard that she almost fell on the floor. Lovely!

By the time they reached Billy's, she was nervous and flustered, a combination of the out-of-control ride and the thought of seeing Billy again. She hadn't mentioned what had taken place between her and Billy to anyone, not even Harry, who at times could be relied upon to be fairly discreet. Harry had dropped by her house earlier, apologized for running out on the chaos and mess, then proceeded to smoke a joint and rave about Paco for one full hour. Eventually she'd told him he'd better leave because she had to get ready for a hot date. Interest piqued, Harry wanted to know who her date was. She'd managed not to tell him, even though she was dying to confide in someone.

Arriving at Billy's house, she was horrified to observe a bunch of paparazzi milling around outside the gates. Hurriedly, she instructed the driver not to stop, and had him take her around the corner, where she pulled out her cell and called Billy.

“There's an alley behind the house,” he informed her. “Take that, an' I'll make sure the back gate is open.”

Her heart was beating fast. She had a date with Billy Melina. She'd actually
screwed
Billy Melina. Or he'd screwed her. Whatever. She'd done the deed, and that was all that mattered.

Man, this was totally surreal.

*   *   *

Over coffee and dessert, Lucky grilled Jeffrey about their morning appointment. “Exactly
why
do you feel it's necessary for me to meet with these people from Jordan Developments?” she asked.

“Because they have plenty of money to invest in future projects, and in my opinion it's always prudent to keep that money close,” Jeffrey explained. “Who knows what you'll decide to do next, Lucky. And in this economy, investors with actual cash are gold.” Jeffrey had worked with Lucky for several years, and he always tried to keep a step or two ahead of her. Knowing the way her mind worked, he was sure she would eventually want to expand, so he was merely putting everything in place should this happen. “I checked out the company,” he continued. “It's solid. Armand Jordan is legitimate. He's a billionaire and a useful man for us to know. Fouad Khan is his right-hand man.”