Double Lucky (83 page)

*   *   *

“I'm curious,” Denver said when they were finally settled in Bobby's suite at The Keys. “What's your mom's fascination with Vegas?”

Bobby moved over to the window and stared out at the staggering view, which never failed to thrill him. “My grandfather on Lucky's side built one of the first hotels here, way back in the forties,” he explained. “Gino. You've met him.”

“I have?” Denver said, unpacking her bag.

“Maybe not,” Bobby said, turning back to look at her. “But you will this weekend. He's some colorful character, my granddad. He used to hang out with Meyer Lansky, Jake the boy, Lucky Luciano—a whole slew of those old-time gangsters. Back in the day, those guys ruled everything, and Gino was right up there. He named Lucky after Lucky Luciano—kind of an homage.”

Denver stopped what she was doing. “No way.”

“Yeah. Kinda wild, huh?”

“I would say so.”

“Anyway, Gino was in the hotel business, and decades later, when he fled America on a tax evasion thing, Lucky moved right in an' took over the building of his latest hotel. She was like twenty or something.”

“That's quite an achievement.”

“It sure is. But hey, that's my mom. Balls of steel.” He chuckled. “Rumor has it she threatened some poor slob in the middle of the night that she'd cut off his dick if he didn't put up the building costs he'd signed on for.”

“And did he?”

“What do
you
think?”

Denver was half impressed and half horrified. She'd always admired strong women, but maybe Lucky Santangelo took strength to a new level.

“What about you, Bobby?” she ventured. “How tough was it when you lost your father?”

“I was too young to remember much about it.”

“And was Lucky a good mother? Was she always around?”

“What's with all the questions, babe? I feel like I'm on the stand.”

“I'd just like to know more about you. Is that okay?”

“Lucky is Lucky. She's the greatest,” Bobby said, moving toward her. “Anyway, I'm here, and I ain't doin' badly, so no more questions an' let's get going. You're in for a big surprise.”

“And what would that be?”

“Now, if I told you,” he said lightly, “it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

And Denver realized that he'd completely steered her off track. No more Lucky revelations today. Bobby was closing ranks on
that
conversation.

*   *   *

After Armand left, Jeffrey expected that Lucky would have plenty to say, and quite frankly he wouldn't have blamed her. Instead she was silent, and the moment he started to apologize she abruptly cut him off.

“Forget about it,” she said coolly. “We all make mistakes.”

Although outwardly she appeared calm, inwardly she was seething. Armand Jordan was the kind of man she abhorred—a self-absorbed, egotistical, chauvinistic pig. It infuriated her that Jeffrey had actually put her in the same room with the creep. Perhaps her lawyer was not as smart as she'd thought, or maybe his divorce was addling his brain.

“Danny,” she said, all business, “inform the desk that I want Armand Jordan out of my hotel before noon. I don't care how it's done, but I want him out.”

Danny snapped to attention. “Yes, Lucky,” he said. “I'll make sure it's taken care of.”

“And Danny, as soon as you've done that, get me a full dossier on Armand Jordan.” She turned to Jeffrey. “Something I probably should have seen
before
the meeting.”

Jeffrey looked uncomfortable. He knew he'd let Lucky down, and that wasn't good, considering she was his most important client. “His company is top-rate,” he began to say. “Armand Jordan is on the Forbes list. I wouldn't bring you—”

“For my own interest,” Lucky interrupted, not wishing to listen to Jeffrey's excuses. “I need to know who I'm dealing with.
Especially
when they threaten me.”

“Lucky, once again, I'm so sorry—”

“Time for the board meeting,” she said, her beautiful face expressionless, only her deep black eyes revealing her annoyance. “Let's go. I don't intend to keep anyone waiting.”

Danny shut his laptop and trotted after them, wondering how Lucky was able to keep her cool. Armand might be a chauvinistic billionaire, but if he, Danny, was in Lucky's place, he would've slapped the man's face, a resounding slap heard for miles.

Ah yes
, Danny thought dreamily.
One of those old-fashioned slaps that used to take place when Diva Queens ruled the movies. Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Joan Crawford.

Danny had rented and avidly watched all their movies; their outfits alone had sent him into a euphoric state.

“Danny,” Lucky said sharply, turning her head. “Stop following us and go deal with getting that person tossed from my hotel. I want you to personally make sure he leaves the premises, and be sure to tell Jerrod to alert everyone that he is not allowed back.
Comprende?
”

“I'm on it,” Danny said, once again jumping to attention. “Although surely you need me at the board meeting?”

“Send one of the assistants to cover it.”

“Really?” Danny said, disappointed because he hated missing anything.

“Yes, really,” Lucky said briskly. “And don't forget that Lennie is arriving at five. Make sure he knows I'm at the apartment. And once he gets here, we do not expect to be disturbed under
any
circumstances. Got it?”

“Got it,” Danny repeated.

“Tell Bobby and Max we'll see them for breakfast tomorrow. And organize anything they or their friends might need for tonight. I'm picking up the tab.”

Danny nodded. He understood. Whenever Lennie reappeared, Lucky carved out alone time with her husband. And that, Danny decided, was the reason they had such a happy and successful marriage.

Lucky had her priorities straight. Nothing and no one came between her and her man.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Armand was burning up. He had never—repeat,
never
—been spoken to in such a fashion, and by a woman! He was enraged. He felt as if his head was going to explode with sheer fury. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He was sick sick sick with anger.

The moment they left Lucky's office he turned on Fouad and began screaming a litany of expletives, as if Fouad were personally responsible for the unfortunate meeting. “Fuck that whore bitch. And fuck you,” Armand yelled, the veins standing out in his forehead. “Motherfucking
cunt
.”

Fouad wasn't quite sure whether the “motherfucking cunt” insult was directed at him or Lucky Santangelo. It didn't matter. He'd made up his mind about moving on, and as soon as he had all his affairs in order, it would be
sayonara
to Armand Jordan and everything he represented. He couldn't wait to return to New York.

However, in spite of Armand's loathsome anger, he managed to remain stony-faced. He'd warned Armand that The Keys was not for sale, but Armand had insisted on meeting the owner anyway. Had he read the research that Fouad's assistant had gathered on Lucky Santangelo, he would have realized that she was no ordinary woman. Lucky Santangelo was a lethal force. A woman with a dangerous and powerful past. A strong, intelligent woman who seemed able to achieve anything she set her mind to. And a beauty too. Fouad was quite struck by her looks and composure.

“What now?” Fouad asked when Armand finally stopped yelling. “Should I arrange for a plane?”

“A plane?” Armand snarled, clenching his fists. “For what? You think I'm running away? You actually imagine I would leave here without getting my prize?”

Why was Armand still thinking he could gain ownership of a property that was not for sale? Surely, as a businessman, he realized there was no deal to be made. Especially after his confrontation with Lucky Santangelo.

This situation was becoming ridiculous. Armand was behaving like an out-of-control child who'd failed to get a new bike for Christmas. Could anyone respect a man who behaved like that? Lucky Santangelo and her lawyer were probably laughing at them. Armand had made a mockery of the meeting. A mockery of Jordan Developments.

“She's not going to sell, Armand,” Fouad said patiently. “You heard her. Not to you or anyone else.”

“Fuck the cunt. I want this hotel, Fouad. And it's time you got it into your useless head that we are not leaving Vegas until I get it.”

*   *   *

Peggy enjoyed a leisurely breakfast out by the pool at the Cavendish. Earlier, she'd phoned her son to see if he would care to join her, but there was no answer from either Armand's cell or his suite. She didn't mind; she was sure that she presented a mysterious and glamorous figure clad in a white sundress, a large straw hat, and Chanel sunglasses, sitting at a table by herself watching the passing parade of tourists and young couples with kids. It was still early; the serious gamblers and bachelor-party groups had yet to emerge.

A middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt who was sprawled at a nearby table with his overweight wife couldn't take his eyes off her. Lust was in the air. Peggy could smell lust a mile off.

She smiled to herself. Vegas agreed with her. Being back there was almost like re-visiting her youth. Ah yes, as one of the most desirable and sought-after girls in town, she'd created quite a stir. Many a man had fallen for her obvious charms. She treasured the memory of those times.

Seeing Gino Santangelo had given her a jolt. The fact that he was still alive was a big surprise. She realized that he must be at least ninety-something, because on the one memorable night she'd spent with him, he was in his fifties. Even so, he'd been a vigorous lover, such a powerhouse.

At eighteen she'd considered herself experienced, but Gino Santangelo had given new meaning to the act of making love.

LAS VEGAS 1968

Peggy Lindquest and Joe Piscarelli made quite the dashing couple around town. Peggy was a stunner, and Joe was no slouch in the handsome stakes, with his wannabe gangster movie-star looks. Their relationship was volatile due to major jealousy issues on both sides. Joe, at the age of thirty, had been around and then some, which meant there were quite a few exes in his world. One-nighters, two-nighters, and so on.

Peggy claimed she had been with only one other man—her high school boyfriend. She was lying, of course, but since she was new to Vegas, there was no way for Joe to prove otherwise.

They fought like wildcats. And then they made up as if they were starring in a porno movie.

It was their pattern.

The one thing that scared Peggy was Joe's violent temper, and when it got too bad, she usually spent the night at a girlfriend's house. Joe always arrived to collect her the next morning, and all was quiet on the Western front. But Peggy's girlfriends kept on warning her that Joe's vile outbursts could easily escalate and become physical. Peggy refused to believe he would ever hit her.

One night he did act out, shoving her violently across the room. Shocked, she fled to her girlfriend Veronica's apartment in a panic, tears and everything.

Veronica, a statuesque black beauty who was a dancer in the Folies Bergere show at the Tropicana, was on her way to an exclusive party at Caesar's Palace. She insisted that Peggy dry her tears and come with her. Peggy declined, until Veronica whispered in her ear, “There's a rumor Sinatra may show up.”

Frank Sinatra. Every Vegas showgirl's dream.

Peggy rapidly changed her mind, and the two girls set off to join the party, dressed to conquer.

Sinatra never appeared, but Gino Santangelo was there, and Gino Santangelo was a legendary figure in Vegas.

Peggy set her charm on high beam and went for it. She'd had no idea it would turn out to be such a heavenly experience. The man was not nicknamed Gino the Ram for nothing.

After a short conversation at the party, he invited her upstairs to a sumptuous suite and asked if her breasts were real. When she said they were, he slowly proceeded to strip her, garment by garment, until she stood before him in her high heels and nothing else.

She wasn't shy. She was almost naked onstage every night.

He admired her body, slowly fingering her in the most intimate of places, and when he decided she was ready, he took her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed with her legs spread. Then he went down on her, slowly, surely, until she was in such a state of ecstasy she was begging him to fuck her.

But he didn't. He forced her to wait until he was ready to make her come with his tongue.

She lay on the bed writhing with passion, desperate for him to ravish her, all thoughts of Joe set aside.

But Gino took his time, exciting her all the more. He pulled her off the bed and led her to the shower, and only then did he divest himself of his clothes and climb in with her, whereupon he proceeded to soap her body until she reached orgasm again, screaming aloud with pleasure.

Finally they returned to the bedroom, where he made love to her for what seemed like hours. At dawn, he sent her home in a chauffeured sedan, and she never heard from him again.

Peggy had something on her mind, something she'd conveniently never faced up to but always secretly wondered about.

In the space of one week in 1968 she'd slept with Joe Piscarelli, Gino Santangelo, and King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan. A month later she'd discovered she was pregnant.

So who was Armand's real father?

Was it Joe Piscarelli, her would-be gangster boyfriend?