Double Lucky (95 page)

“And that would be?” Peggy asked politely.

“Dinner again tomorrow night.”

“Gino,” Paige said, reminding him. “Tomorrow night is Max's party.”

“So Peggy'll come t' the party,” Gino said magnanimously, once again giving Peggy the wink.

Was it possible that he
did
remember their one night of lust? It was so long ago, and yet …

“I think I'd enjoy that,” Peggy replied, getting to her feet.

“I'll call you in the morning, then,” Paige said, and just like that, before Peggy could react, Paige kissed her full on the lips. After which Peggy beat a hasty retreat.

*   *   *

Carlos the concierge was right about Luscious and Seducta: If it wasn't nailed down, they had an urge to collect.

Seducta carried an oversized fake leather purse she'd recently swiped from K-Mart. It was roomy enough to hold all her favorite things for a rip-roaring night of paid-for sex. Condoms, a double-headed black dildo, and enough lubricant to please an elephant. However, as she flitted around the villa, she still had room to throw in several bars of expensive hotel soap, a couple of crystal shot glasses from behind the bar, and various snacks and several miniature bottles of booze from the minibar, plus two marble ashtrays and a couple of rolls of toilet paper. Every little bit helped. Besides, what was wrong with bringing home gifts for Mikey?

Luscious was more discerning. She raided the bedroom and rifled through Armand's personal possessions, grabbing a silk tie still in its cellophane wrap, and two pairs of what looked like solid-gold cuff links. The dude would never notice; he had a shitload of stuff. Too much.

Luscious wondered who he was. Obviously loaded. Probably wanted a show since he'd requested two girls.

Another night, another pervert.

Luscious was up for it as long as Seducta knew how to behave. They'd never worked together in front of a john. There was a rhythm to making sure the client ended up with a satisfactory happy ending.

Luscious knew exactly how to do it. The question was, did Seducta?

*   *   *

When the Cavendish Hotel was built, the team of architects had created a series of on-the-property luxury villas meant for high rollers only, private and discreet—a golf-cart ride away from the main hotel or, if the guests were so inclined, a walk along a series of leafy pathways.

Armand chose to walk, Annabelle by his side.

“How far is it?” she asked after a few minutes of uncomfortable tottering. “These Jimmy Choos are not made for walking.”

Armand ignored her; he had many other things on his mind. The concierge had texted him that the women he'd ordered were waiting in his villa. Perhaps sex would clear his head.

He couldn't wait to see Annabelle's expression when she realized they were not alone.

Would she run out on him?

Or would she stay?

He needed her to stay. She knew the Santangelo family, so that made her useful. Perhaps ignoring her was not in his best interest.

What
was
in his best interest?

His mind was filled with raging thoughts of seeing Lucky Santangelo dead. Shot. The bullet hitting her directly in her loud mouth, the mouth that had dared to insult him.

But how to arrange it?

Fouad would not help. Fouad was a sniveling lackey who thought only about himself. It infuriated Armand that after all these years he could not depend on Fouad.

Enough money would buy him the right person to do the deed, but how to find that person? Would the Internet be of any help? No, probably not.

“I said my feet are killing me,” Annabelle repeated, wishing he was a little more attentive.

“Take your shoes off,” he suggested, stopping for a moment. “Bare feet can be quite sexual.”

“Oh no,” Annabelle mock-groaned, hoping to get at least a smile out of him. “Don't tell me you have a foot fetish?”

“Would that bother you?” he asked, testing her.

Annabelle thought for a moment, then leaned up against him while she removed her spike heels. Foot fetish or not, she had him in her sights, and this time she was hanging in there.

Armand seized the opportunity to forcefully kiss her, his tongue darting into her mouth while his hand reached down, making its way roughly up her skirt—heading for ground zero.

She was startled but still game. At least he was interested. This was her shot, and this time she had to make sure it worked out, for unfortunately she had big financial problems. After her somewhat scandalous book was published, her father cut her off, so now money was not exactly falling out of the trees, which meant she needed a man like Armand Jordan to support her and give her credibility. Armand had everything she wanted. Money. Power. Status. And when he became the new owner of The Keys, she would have her own personal playground to entertain her friends. What could be better?

“Easy,” she whispered as his thick fingers negotiated a passage past her thong and into her pussy, which was not exactly wet and willing. But she could rally.

Armand Jordan was her major catch of the day.

*   *   *

Peggy elicited the help of a willing desk clerk, who for fifty bucks was only too happy to escort her on a golf-cart ride to Armand's villa and then let her in with a passkey. For who would suspect that this well-groomed woman—loaded with expensive jewelry—was anything other than the person she claimed to be. She'd told him she was Armand Jordan's mother, and that she had to pick up some important papers from her son's villa. He had no reason to doubt her.

“Should I wait for you?” the desk clerk asked.

“That would be lovely,” Peggy replied, not relishing the long walk back to the main hotel. “I'll only be a minute or two.”

She entered the villa and was shocked to encounter two women of extremely dubious appearance. They were lolling around on high stools by the bar, drinking cocktails and smoking.

Luscious and Seducta were equally shocked to see Peggy.

“Where is Armand?” were the first words out of Peggy's mouth.

“Who?” questioned Seducta, adjusting her mammoth breasts, which were fighting to escape from a lime-green halter top that was several sizes too small.

Luscious, slightly quicker on the draw, said a fast “He's on his way. Who're you?”

Peggy stood tall, trying to hide her dismay that this was the type of women her son was associating with. These women were certainly not ladies; they resembled cheap street hookers, the kind she'd observed acting the part on
Law & Order
.

“I am Armand's mother,” Peggy said grandly, walking toward what she assumed was the bedroom.

“Kinky,” Seducta muttered.

“Shh,” Luscious admonished in a hoarse whisper. “Wouldn't think the old bag's here to stay.”

“Then what've we got ourselves stuck with?” Seducta said, gulping down her cocktail. “Some sexed-out freaky momma's boy?”

Luscious shrugged. She wasn't sure herself.

After a few moments, Peggy emerged from the bedroom and hurried to the door. She'd gotten what she'd come for, and she had no desire to run into Armand, not with these two dreadful women present. Her disgust was so palpable that she didn't even bother saying anything as she slipped out the door. Tomorrow she vowed that she would sit down with Armand and discuss with him his choice of female companions. He might be a grown man, but it was blatantly obvious that it was time someone gave him guidance.

She was his mother.

She was entitled.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

“We could hit another club,” Kev suggested.

“Why'd we wanna do that?” Billy responded.

“What the fuck's t' matter with you, dude?” Kev asked, squinting. “You're acting like you don't wanna do nothin'.”

“Maybe I don't,” Billy replied. He simply wasn't feeling it, and the more time he spent with Kev, the more his old friend was getting on his nerves. Some people you eventually outgrew. Kev was one of them.

“This is Vegas, man. Freakin' Vegas!” Kev said, venting his frustration. “Land of pussy an' cream.”

“So go get yourself some,” Billy suggested. “Me, I'm headin' back to the hotel.”

“Why'd you wanna do that?” Kev complained. “We should be out there rippin' up this town, tearing it to shreds.”

“Like I said, you're on your own. You don't need me.”

“Why not?” Kev said, sensing that a fun evening of debauchery was slipping away from him. “You're a pussy magnet. The girls cream their panties just lookin' at you.”

“Thanks, Kev,” Billy said grimly. “Exactly the description of my talent I was jonesing to hear.”

“It's a freakin' compliment, man,” Kev insisted.

“Yeah, yeah. Pussy catnip,” Billy said, getting more irritated by the minute. “Just the compliment I was hoping for.”

“Don't take it the wrong way,” Kev said, finally realizing he was pissing Billy off and that it was time to backpedal.

“What way should I take it, Kev?”

“Okay, okay, I get it. We're on our way back to the hotel.”

“You can stay here an' do your thing. It's not like I need an escort.”

“Yeah, I think you do. All those bachelorette parties goin' on in the hotel lobby. You need me t' run interference.”

Billy's cell buzzed. Turning his back on Kev, he fished it out of his pocket and answered.

“Hey,” said Max, sounding very young and very excited. “It's me. What are you
doing
here?”

*   *   *

Although Jorge was quite a dancer, after a while Denver could tell he was dying to talk. She was very adept at reading people, and this poor guy seemed so damn desperate, as if he was in way over his head and didn't quite know what to do.

“How long have you and Venus been together?” she asked, not really interested but making conversation anyway.

“Today. Tonight,” Jorge said with a helpless shrug. “Not sure about tomorrow.”

“Well, if Venus invited you to Vegas with her, then she must really like you,” Denver said encouragingly.

“She ignore me,” Jorge said glumly. “In front of people, she treat me like pet. Like little dog.”

“Oh dear,” Denver said sympathetically. “That's not okay.”

“She not even introduce me,” Jorge complained. “Like I no matter.”

“Venus is a big star. I'm sure she doesn't mean it.”

“We see,” Jorge said resignedly. “I come long way to be in America, to make success here.”

Then, whether she wanted to hear it or not, Jorge launched into the story of his life.

Denver realized she was trapped, but at the same time she felt sorry for him, so she remained on the dance floor and listened.

*   *   *

Frankie Romano in all his boastful glory was quite a show.

“What up?” he said to Bobby and M.J., happy to see them.

“Same old,” M.J. replied, exchanging a quick fist pump with his old friend.

“Hey,” Bobby said, repeating the gesture. “Long time no see.”

“You two guys, you never change,” Frankie said, his left eye twitching. “Son of a bitch! You both smash it out the park. A coupla studs.”

“You're looking good too,” Bobby offered, although he didn't think so.

“Didja hear?” Frankie said. “I opened my place in L.A. River. Course, it's nothin' like this setup. Mood is spectacular, with the pool an' the lights an' the view. But you gotta gimme kudos 'cause I finally got my shit together, an' now I'm runnin' my own club, an' it's flyin'.”

Bobby had heard all about River. It was the go-to club for any drug you desired. Coke, meth, quaaludes, E, weed, pills. Yeah, sure it was doing okay. L.A. was an easy town in which to acquire customers for your wares. Everyone had their secret little addictions—some of them not so secret.

Jokingly, Bobby had once suggested to M.J. that they'd be better off opening up luxury rehab centers than opening clubs. It seemed celebrities were willing to pay thousands of dollars a week just to give the impression that they were clean. More hooking up and illicit pill popping went on in rehab than anywhere else. Then a week out, everyone was back using.

“It's great seein' you guys,” Frankie said. “Missed your smilin' faces.”

“Glad to hear you're doing well,” Bobby said, keeping it neutral. Just because Frankie was in his club didn't mean they had to become close buddies again. Those days were over. In a way, he missed Frankie, but in another way he didn't. Frankie's coke habit had gotten out of control, and from the looks of him, scarey-eyed and emaciated, nothing much had changed.

“You here for the fights?” M.J. asked.

“If I can score me some ringside seats,” Frankie said. “Any connections?”

“As a matter of fact,” M.J. said, always Mister Nice, “I might be able to help you out.”

“That's my main man,” Frankie said, clapping M.J. on the back. “You always did have your finger on what's goin' down. An' speakin' of goin' down—you still married?”

“You bet I am,” M.J. replied. “Marriage rocks, man.”

“How 'bout you, Bobby?” Frankie asked, taking a swig from the glass of vodka he was holding onto. “You still with that little lawyer piece of ass?”

“If you mean Denver,” Bobby said, annoyed that Frankie would be so disrespectful, “we're very much together.”

“Hey, that's cool. Me, I can never stick with one of 'em for too long. Annabelle was my last big mistake.” Another swig of vodka, and a quick glance back at his table to see if he was missing any action. “Right now my thing is movin' on. Lately I'm hangin' with Gerald M.'s daughter, Cookie. You might've seen our pix online. Cookie's young, hot, an' boy, is she ready to
partee
—if you get my drift.”