Double Lucky (82 page)

Danny felt like applauding. Who else had a boss as feisty and perfect as Lucky Santangelo? She was unique.

Filled with unmitigated rage, Armand abruptly stood up and marched to the door. Once there he stopped and turned, in spite of Fouad trying to maneuver him out. Glaring at Lucky, he spat his final words. “I can assure you,
bitch,
this is not the end, it is merely the beginning of a battle you will eventually lose. So get off your high horse and back into the bedroom where you belong. The Keys will be mine; there is nothing and no one who will stop me from owning it. Be warned, because I will do anything to get it. And when I say anything, I do mean anything. And that, my dear, is not a threat, it's a cold hard fact.”

Lucky rose to her feet, her dark eyes flashing danger signals. She'd had it with this expensively clad douche bag. “Get the fuck out of my hotel, moron. And never bother coming back. Because if you ever do, I promise you'll regret it.”

Before Armand could reply, Fouad managed to hustle him out the door.

As far as Fouad was concerned, this was one deal that would never happen.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Arriving at The Keys, Max felt as if she was coming home, for she knew the place as well as their Malibu house. She'd swum in every pool, availed herself of all the spa facilities, eaten in every restaurant, shopped in every high-end shop, and explored the lush gardens countless times. She had her own suite in the hotel, on a special floor reserved strictly for family and friends.

Lucky's apartment was off-limits. “It's my haven of peace and quiet,” Lucky had explained when she'd started spending time in Vegas. “It's a no-kid zone unless you're invited.”

At first Max was furious when her mom had informed everyone of the rule. But then again, her mom was Lucky Santangelo, and everyone knew that Lucky did things her way. Now Max was totally into the fact that she could come and go as she pleased,
and
have her friends to stay whenever she wanted. It was a way cool situation, except when brother Gino Junior and her half brother, Leonardo, were around. Fortunately, the two boys were gone for the entire summer, traveling around Europe with a guardian. It was Lennie's idea that they get a view of life beyond Beverly Hills and Vegas. Max was psyched to be rid of them; they were both younger than her and majorly annoying, especially when they all ended up having to spend time together in Vegas.

Bobby had arranged to have his Lamborghini waiting for him at the airport, so the moment they arrived, he and Denver took off. A chauffeured SUV collected Max, Harry, and Paco and headed straight to the hotel.

“Are you
sure
Paco is gay?” Max whispered to Harry on the drive to The Keys. “He doesn't seem as if he is to me.”

“Shh,” Harry scolded, his pale face turning bright red. “That's such a random thing to say.”

“Only asking,” Max said irritably, thinking that Harry should be a little nicer to her, considering she'd gotten his new friend a ride on Bobby's plane. “No need to throw a fit.”

“He's sitting two feet away,” Harry hissed. “For crap's sake—shut it!”

Oh great. What a birthday
this
was going to be. Bobby in a mood, Harry acting like a dick, and no boyfriend, plus Cookie would be all over Mister Cokeaholic when they arrived.

Fantastic fun. She might as well drown herself in one of the pools.

*   *   *

“How very thoughtful of you to bring my favorite car,” Denver said dryly as she gingerly lowered herself into the passenger seat of the Lamborghini. “I love it because it's
so
low-key.”

“Hey,” Bobby said, with a quick grin, “a boy's gotta have
some
toys.”

“And you are
such
a boy,” she responded. She couldn't help laughing, because it was true. At times Bobby could be quite serious, but it was his playful streak she couldn't resist. The private plane, the fancy car—all big-boy toys. He'd never admit it, but he had very expensive tastes.

“By the way,” Bobby said, revving the engine. “Guess who I ran into at the airport in New York?”

“Hmm, let me see … the pope? The president?”

“Very amusing.”

“I try.”

“Annabelle Maestro.”

“Oh my God! Not Annabelle,” Denver said, flashing onto her old school friend, who'd always treated her like a poor relation—even though they weren't related. And when Annabelle's movie-star mother had been murdered, and Denver was involved with defending Annabelle's famous dad, she'd
still
been treated like the poor relative, even though she was a respected attorney with a top Beverly Hills law firm. “How is she?”

“The same entitled bitch on wheels, minus Frankie.”

Now Denver flashed onto Annabelle's ex—the coke-addicted Frankie Romano, who used to be one of Bobby's best friends. “Well,” she said, remembering Annabelle's annoying sense of self-importance, “I hardly think it's likely she'll ever change. What did she have to say?”

Bobby decided it was prudent not to mention that Annabelle had referred to Denver as “some kind of mutt.”

“Not much,” he said, sliding into traffic. “Carrying on about that book she got published.”

“Oh yes,
My Life: A Hollywood Princess Tells All.
What a crock of shit!”

“I take it you're not a fan?” Bobby said, amused.

“Hell, no,” Denver said, shaking her head. “Annabelle was always a piece of work. Surely you remember her in high school.”

Oh yes, he remembered Annabelle, all right, and it was a memory he'd sooner forget. He and M.J. had double-teamed her—with her consent—on a drunken prom night. Something to never mention, especially to Denver, who he was sure would not appreciate hearing about it.

“I guess Frankie had a welcome escape,” Bobby ventured, zipping in front of a Cadillac.

“I think they both did,” Denver said, briskly closing the subject. The last person she wished to talk about was Annabelle Maestro. And as for Frankie Romano—a total loser.

“When we get to the hotel,” Bobby said, “unpack, an' put on something casual.”

“Why's that?”

He grinned. “You'll see,” he said, barely missing a jaywalking pedestrian.

“Mystery Man,” she murmured, loving that he had such a strong romantic streak.

“Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “An' doncha love it!”

Yes, Bobby, I do.

*   *   *

“We're here, an' I'm, like, so into it!” Cookie singsonged, sliding her long brown legs out of Frankie's car, flashing the valet parker with her miniskirt, under which she wore no panties.

Frankie hadn't bothered to book a room, because Cookie had informed him they would be well taken care of. He hadn't realized they would be staying on what Max referred to as the Santangelo floor. When they got off the elevator, he was already feeling horny again, in spite of Cookie servicing him in the car. A little sex, a little gambling—Vegas had that effect on him.

A stern-looking older black woman armed with a lengthy guest list sat at the reception desk facing the elevator.

“Hiya, Betty,” Cookie said, swooping in for a friendly hug. “Are we in my usual room?”

Betty gave Frankie a disapproving once-over.

“'S okay,” Cookie said gaily. “He's my boyfriend.”

Betty reached for her glasses and consulted her list. “And his name is?”

Frankie bristled. “Frankie Romano,” he said shortly. “An' you can forget about a room; we need a suite. An' make sure any calls get put directly through to me. Romano. R-O-M—”

“I know how to spell, Mr. Romano,” Betty said caustically. “And I do believe all the suites are reserved.”

“Well, unreserve one,” Frankie said, giving her a sharp look. “Lucky would want me to be comfortable.”

Frankie and Betty locked eyes. It was not a friendly interaction.

“I'll see what I can do,” Betty said at last, shuffling papers.

Frankie reached into his pocket and flipped a hundred-dollar bill onto her desk. “You do that, hon.”

Betty picked up the bill and gave it back to him. “Not necessary,” she said.

“Take it,” Frankie insisted, thrusting it toward her.

“No thank you,” Betty said, ignoring him as she calmly handed Cookie her door card.

Cookie grabbed it, and pulled Frankie away from the desk. “Let's go,” she singsonged. “Don't mess with Betty, she can be fierce!”

He threw Betty another look. “Suite,” he said shortly. “Deal with it.”

Betty continued to ignore him.

“Max and me—we come here all the time,” Cookie announced, flouncing into a large blue bedroom with a balcony overlooking the main swimming pool. “This is usually my room.”

“I hope you heard me,” Frankie said, not pleased. “We need a suite. When Max gets here,
you
deal with it.”

“Take no notice of Betty,” Cookie said. “She's only doing her job. I'll score us a suite. Don't go gettin' your balls in a spasm.”

“You'd better,” Frankie said, grabbing her ass and squeezing hard. “I do not appreciate slummin' it.”

“Here's the good news,” Cookie said. “Everything's comped. Spa, restaurants, pool, shows. You name it—we get it for free.” She fished from her purse a black-and-gold credit card with her name engraved on it. “
This
is my ticket to ride,” she boasted. “Lucky handed them out to special people when The Keys opened. Bangin', huh?”

Frankie decided he wanted one of those. How come Bobby had never offered him one?

The porter entered with their bags. Frankie tossed him the hundred-dollar bill the douche at reception had refused to accept. Always good to get out the word that there was a big spender in town.

He wondered if Cookie's magic credit card covered gambling, then smirked at the thought of losing Lucky Santangelo's money in
her
casino. What a coup that would be.

Thinking about Bobby's foxy mom, he realized he hadn't seen her in a while, ever since he and Bobby had lost touch. Lucky and Lennie had always been laid-back with him, always friendly. They were a major power couple, and a kick to be around. He decided that he should try to see more of them, invite them to his club, get reacquainted.

Yeah. This was going to be some weekend, and Frankie Romano was expecting to take full advantage of whatever Vegas had to offer.

*   *   *

“Where we gonna stay?” Kev asked as they boarded the plane.

Billy had been so intent on getting to Vegas that he hadn't bothered to work out the details. Obviously it would not be wise to stay at The Keys. He called Bambi, his publicist, and told her to book him into the Cavendish.

“Why exactly are you on your way to Vegas?” Bambi was curious to know. “Are you going for the big fight?”

“You know I'm not a boxing fan.”

“Well, then,” Bambi said. “Is something happening that I'm missing out on?”

“Nothing but a twenty-four-hour crazy gamble with my friend Kev,” Billy assured her.

“Okay,” Bambi said, somewhat put out. “Only please don't forget that you have a cover shoot for
Vanity Fair
on Monday.”

“Wouldn't miss it, Bamb.”

“You say that now, Billy,” Bambi lectured, worried that her star client was up to no good. “However, you kept the reporter from
Rolling Stone
waiting for three hours,
then
you proceeded to cut the interview short. She wasn't happy, and I can't say I blame her.”

“The she who wasn't happy was aiming to talk her way into my pants,” Billy explained. “You know how it is with some female reporters; they're only around for the perks.”

“You're a big boy, Billy,” Bambi admonished. “Surely you can handle that sort of thing.”

“Hey, Bamb,” Billy said, deftly switching subjects. “I got a question.”

“Yes?”

“When your parents named you Bambi, did they expect you to be a porn star or a stripper?”

“Billy! That's so inappropriate.”

“Just askin'.”

“I'll arrange a comped villa at the Cavendish,” Bambi said snippily. “Good-bye.” And she cut him off with a determined click.

“What's she look like?” Kev immediately wanted to know, conjuring up a vision of a juicy blonde in hot pants and a nipple-revealing tank.

“Think about her name, and then imagine the exact opposite,” Billy said. “She's a dragon lady with teeth that could bite your cock off in one fell swoop. So fuhgedaboudit.”

“Copy that,” Kev said, shuddering at the graphic image.

*   *   *

Ace had spent time at The Keys with Max on several occasions, which meant he was aware of the routine. There was a reserved underground parking section for the Santangelo/Golden family and their guests, so he drove his truck right to it. The valet parker greeted him like an old friend. After exchanging pleasantries, he grabbed his overnight bag and headed upstairs in a private elevator that deposited him on the Santangelo/Golden floor. There he was met by Betty, the middle-aged concierge. Betty was armed with a list of expected guests. Fortunately, he knew her, and he quickly informed her that he was Max's birthday surprise, so not a word that he was here.

Betty nodded agreeably. After Cookie and her obnoxious boyfriend, Ace was a delight, a nice-looking young man, tall and lanky, and always polite.

“Any idea what time Max is getting here?” he asked.

“Soon,” Betty replied. “The Stanislopoulos plane landed twenty minutes ago.”

“The what?”

“Bobby's plane.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ace said, suddenly remembering who he was dealing with. Max's brother had the use of a plane, and Max was obviously on it. “I'll wait,” he said, groping in his pocket to make sure the box with the present he'd purchased for Max was still there. He'd spent $250 on a gold heart pendant, and he was hoping she'd love it. She'd better; it was the most expensive gift he'd ever bought anyone.