Drop Dead Beautiful (12 page)

The first woman he’d ever screwed was a whore plying her trade on the streets of Naples. It had happened a few weeks before his twelfth birthday and he was already ragingly horny. The whore had beckoned him into an alley—snatched his money, which he’d stolen from his mother’s purse, and screwed him standing up. Fast and furious, that was the way she’d liked it. He’d realized then and there that was the way
all
women liked it.

He’d never changed his sexual style. Fuck ’em hard and fuck ’em long. The story of his success with women.

Renee Falcon Esposito, joint owner of the Cavendish
Hotel, had sent a limousine to the airport. Renee and he went way back to the days she was married to Oscar Esposito, the Colombian billionaire politician, a man who’d met his fate by being tossed from a moving plane after trying to pull a double cross on an extremely powerful and vengeful drug lord. Since Anthony had been banging Renee on the side, she’d immediately turned to him for help. He’d never revealed to her that he was part of the plot to get rid of Oscar, but he
had
helped her flee Colombia with the money she’d inherited from her deceased husband—not to mention several safe-deposit boxes stuffed with illegal cash, which he’d persuaded her she had to split with him.

He’d moved Renee back to her hometown, Las Vegas, where she’d eventually hooked up with another mega-bucks female, Susie Rae Young, the widow of famous country singer Cyrus Rae Young. The two of them had formed a life partnership
and
built their dream hotel in which Anthony had declared himself a silent partner.

That was over ten years ago, and business was excellent, so Renee had not taken much convincing that the Keys was a direct threat, and could pull away many of their best customers. Anthony insisted they had to do something drastic to stop the Keys from opening. He’d come up with an idea of how to do this. It was a costly plan, but it would be totally effective. Anthony had agreed to pay half of the million bucks it would cost them to have an expert blow up the complex—one building at a time. He had no intention of paying his half. Let Renee foot the entire bill. She owed him.

The hotel limo was waiting on the tarmac alongside his plane. The driver was a tall Swedish blonde dressed in black leather from her knee-high boots to the jaunty cap sitting on top of her head.

“Welcome back to Vegas, Mr. Bonar,” she said in a throaty, accented voice. “I will be your driver while you are here.”

He barely glanced in her direction.

“My name is Britt,” she continued, handing him a small silver cell phone. “All my numbers are programmed in. I’m
on duty twenty-four hours a day. Call whenever you need me, I’m at your disposal.”

Anthony tossed the phone to The Grill, a move not lost on the blonde, who pretended not to notice.

“Straight to the hotel, Mr. Bonar?” she inquired, holding open the door.

“Yeah,” he said, climbing in the back. “An’ no conversation.”

The Cavendish was a small—by Vegas standards— boutique membership-only luxury hotel catering to extreme high rollers, sports and movie stars, plus high-powered moguls and executives. Very few of the general public were allowed in. The gambling was exclusive, as was the hotel, which had a reputation for supplying all services a guest required. “The best of everything” was the hotel’s motto, and that included any known drug, and the highest-priced call girls in the city. Renee ran a tight operation, with major security all around.

Renee herself was standing in the cool marble lobby of her hotel waiting to greet him. Every time he saw her, Anthony couldn’t help marveling at the woman’s transformation. When he’d first met her Renee had been Oscar Esposito’s American trophy wife, a curvaceous former showgirl with teased blond hair, long legs, and large breasts. Definitely fuckable. Definitely a babe. Now she weighed well over two hundred pounds, wore her hair in a severely cropped dark brown bob, and her implants were long gone. Renee was a different woman. A tough dyke who’d carved a niche for herself in Vegas as a canny businesswoman with a life partner who was even richer than her. All she and Anthony had between them now was business, and that’s the way it suited both of them.

“Anthony,” Renee greeted. “My favorite bad boy.”

“Renee,” Anthony responded. “My favorite dyke.”

Renee had stones, an admirable quality in a woman, although Anthony wasn’t too sure about the lesbian thing. Surely she missed cock?

“Smooth flight?” Renee inquired.

“Not bad,” Anthony replied, his eyes flicking around the lobby, checking things out.

“I’ve put you in Bungalow One. I thought we’d meet for dinner, Susie’s excited to see you.”

“I ain’t here to socialize, Renee,” he reminded her gruffly. “I’m here to make certain everythin’s in place.”

“I can assure you it is,” Renee replied, irritated that he would doubt her. “You told me to hire Tucker Bond, and I did. We’re paying for the best, Anthony. Half up front, and the rest when the job is done.”

“I don’t want no fuckups,” Anthony growled.

“I don’t allow for fuckups,” Renee responded.

“Yeah?”

“I’m as concerned as you are,” she said, annoyed that Anthony had a way of speaking down to her that she did not appreciate.

Once Anthony was settled into the luxurious bungalow with its own private swimming pool and a bar stocked with the finest brands of liquor and wine, he placed another call to Carlita.

This time his sexy Italian mistress picked up.

“Where the fuck ya bin?” he demanded, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table.

She made up some excuse about visiting a sick relative.

“So sick ya couldn’t pick up ya fuckin’ cell?” Anthony said, frowning.

Once again Carlita had an answer, telling him that her phone had a low battery or some such shit.

He said nothing. He was pleasant, affectionate even, although he had a strong gut feeling that the douche bag was cheating on him.

As soon as he put the phone down, he called one of his minions in New York and issued an order to have Carlita followed. “Whatever she’s doin’, I wanna know ’bout it,” he
instructed. “An’ if you find her doin’ anythin’ she shouldn’t, get me photos, proof. Do whatever you gotta do t’bring me the goods.”

If she was innocent of screwing around on him, nothing lost.

And if the
puttana
was guilty …

Well, if she was guilty, it was her funeral.

Irma’s second session with Luis was all she had hoped for and more. It was late afternoon, she’d sent the housekeeper out, the old gardener was still away, and the guards were stationed at the front of the house with Anthony’s two ferocious Dobermans.

“I need you to look at my indoor plants. Follow me,” she’d informed Luis, who still hadn’t understood a word she’d said, although he’d certainly understood what “Follow me” meant.

As soon as they’d reached the privacy of her bedroom, she’d locked the door behind them. Luis hadn’t hesitated. He’d ripped the clothes from her body with feverish haste, then he’d begun divesting his own garments as fast as he could get them off.

Words were not spoken.

Words were not needed.

Once she was naked, he’d leaned her back against the wall, spread-eagling her legs.

Propped against the wall with her legs apart, she’d felt exposed, vulnerable, and unbelievably sexually excited.

Luis had stroked her nipples, fingered her crotch, then dropped to his knees and started going down on her, his tongue forcing its way through her wiry bush of pubic hair, darting into her most secret place—a place Anthony had
never
visited with his tongue.

After a few minutes of indescribable ecstasy, she’d shuddered to an earth-shattering climax, moaning with passion as Luis stood up. He’d then gathered her into his strong arms and carried her over to the bed, whereupon he’d
laid her down, once more spread her legs, and mounted her, slowly and surely moving back and forth inside her.

Words were still not spoken.

Words were still not needed.

For once, Irma had been totally satisfied.

Being married to a corrupt politician had taught Renee the ways of the world—the world that Anthony and his business associates inhabited. She knew how to please the men she had to deal with, and not in a sexual way. Renee had turned herself into one of the boys—a tough broad who ran a tight operation and could dole out punishment with the best of them.

A few months after opening the Cavendish, Renee had caught one of her dealers cheating. Two days later his bullet-riddled body had turned up in a used-car lot. Renee had wanted his body to be found. The message was clear enough:
Don’t think you can fuck with me simply because I’m a woman
.

The message worked until an L.A.-based madam decided to have a few of her best girls work the high rollers at the Cavendish. The madam moved them in big time under the guise of actresses and models, but Renee soon caught on. She had invitations printed inviting half a dozen of the girls to a very exclusive lingerie party given by a Saudi prince. She also put the word out that each girl who attended would receive a large cash bonus.

Saudi prince
and
cash bonus
were the four key words. The girls arrived wearing nothing much at all. At the door of the penthouse suite where the party was to take place, they were relieved of their purses as a security measure.

While the girls—clad in nothing more than revealing underwear—waited in the plush suite for the Arab prince to appear, Renee had her people visit all their rooms and gather together every item of the girls’ expensive clothes and accessories. When this was done, Renee supervised a huge bonfire in the parking lot, and the girls were herded together and forced to watch as everything they’d arrived in Vegas with was burned—including the contents of their purses.

After the bonfire ceremony they were driven into the desert and left there half naked with no money, no airline tickets, no cell phones—nothing.

Somehow or other they all made it back to L.A. And sure enough, their madam got the message.

Nobody sued.

Nobody came back.

Point made.

Since that time Renee had dealt with several other employees who had caused her trouble. She was relentless when it came to protecting her territory, which was why she’d agreed with Anthony when he’d come up with his plan to destroy the Keys. He was right, the new hotel complex was a direct threat to the Cavendish, especially as the building was so close. The Keys would be targeting all of the Cavendish’s best customers, and as the building progressed, Renee was just as determined as Anthony to do something about it.

Anthony had come up with the idea of hiring Tucker Bond to take care of their problem, and Renee had put it together, speaking to the man herself.

It was an expensive undertaking, but Anthony was splitting the cost, and he’d assured her it would be worth it to get rid of their direct competition.

The Keys project opening in Vegas was bad business for everyone. That’s all there was to it.

Chapter 17

“Billy Melina,” the female journalist singsonged in a raspy voice. “Billy Melina in the flesh.”

Florence Harbinger was fiftyish, fat, and frumpy with a digital recorder clutched in one hand and a verging-on-sarcastic attitude.

Instinctively Billy knew he’d have to work hard to win this one over. Female journalists. A breed unto themselves. They needed care and attention, otherwise they’d destroy you in print. Billy had learned the hard way.

Rule number one: Compliment.

Rule number two: Flirt.

Rule number three: Ask about their family.

Rule number four: More flirting and make it stick.

Florence Harbinger had a reputation. She ate actors for breakfast and spit ’em out all over the pages of the high-profile magazine she worked for. And because the magazine was so high profile, every publicist in town was hot to get their star clients on the cover and getting the cover meant sitting down with the lovely Florence. Billy was
so
not into it.

Where was Janey when he needed her? His so-called publicist was a total flake. If she didn’t put in an appearance in the next five minutes, he was definitely firing her skinny ass.

“Billy, Billy, Billy,” Florence repeated, chanting his name. “So tell me, dear, how’s it working out with you and the older woman? Is it difficult? Are we having fun? Or do
you think being with the multitalented Venus diminishes
your
fame?”

Oh yeah, this was going to be a bumpy ride. Grin and flirt with the dried-up old hag who probably hadn’t gotten laid in years. Give her a taste of the old hick-seed charm he’d possessed when he’d first hit Hollywood.

“You know, Florence,” he said, speaking slowly, “I never thought of that.” As he spoke he gave her the famous Billy Melina blue-eyed stare. Kev called it the “panties off” stare, hard for any female young or old to resist. “By the way, have you lost weight? You’re lookin’
very
good,” Billy continued.

Florence was too old and seasoned to fall for it completely, but her attitude toward him noticeably softened, and by the time Janey arrived, the interview was well on course.

Janey, a sallow-faced girl with wispy yellow hair and an out-of-control overbite, allowed the interview to run over, which infuriated Billy. How many times had he told her that if a journalist couldn’t get what they wanted in an hour, it was over?

Billy was incensed, trapped, and pissed off. This wasn’t right. He was talking too much and probably saying things he shouldn’t, and dumb Janey was hanging in the kitchen with Kev as if he, Billy, was perfectly fine with
two freaking hours
of interrogation. SHIT!

Finally his cell rang and he took the opportunity to make a quick escape. “Gotta take this,” he informed Florence, who looked like she was all set for another two hours of scintillating conversation. “I’ll be right back.”

He raced into the kitchen and blasted Janey, who managed to look forlorn and hard-done-by—as if
he
was the one at fault.