Drop Dead Beautiful (14 page)

“The Santangelo clan,” Brigette said with a sunny smile. “I’m so glad I’m part of it.”

“And we’re glad to have you,” Lucky said warmly.

“Yeah,” Lennie agreed. “Especially without some deadbeat trailing along behind you.”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on her,” Bobby objected. “That’s my niece you’re talking to, and she’s one hot number.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” Brigette said, still smiling. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Okay,” Lucky said. “Why don’t I take you upstairs to your rooms, and you can unpack?”

“Great idea,” Bobby said. “Then later we’ll talk about my future club in your hotel. It’s not like I come cheap, y’know, you’ll have to pay for the privilege.”

“Really?” Lucky drawled. “Can’t wait to negotiate with you, Bobby. I’m sure you’re a regular hard-ass.”

“I want to be around for
that
meeting,” Lennie said, joining in.

“I’ll make sure you are,” Bobby said, full of confidence.

“Yes, Lennie,” Lucky said. “You can take notes, see who wins.”

“I think I already know the answer to that one,” Lennie said, grinning.

“Don’t be so sure,” Bobby responded. “I’m a Santangelo crossed with a Stanislopolous. That means you can never count me out.”

Big Bear was unfamiliar territory to Max. She drove around getting lost, stopping to ask directions to Kmart, which turned out to be on the main street.

All of a sudden she was nervous. How would she recognize Grant? How would he recognize her? Had she mentioned what car she was driving? She must have told him she had a BMW—then again, maybe she hadn’t.

Crap! This was nerve-racking, and she was not feeling as cool about it as she’d thought she would. What if she hated him? What if he was a major jerk? Or even worse—a major perv like Cookie had suggested he might be?

Oh great! This could end up being a no-win situation.

Desperate to find a bathroom and dying of thirst, she parked her car, hurriedly glanced around the parking lot, and went inside the store thinking that maybe Grant was already there, looking for her.

She spotted a lanky-looking guy in a Lakers sweatshirt and faded Levi’s lounging near the check-out. He didn’t seem to be buying anything, and even though he looked nothing like the photo Grant had posted, she wondered if it could possibly be him. After walking by him a couple of times she finally swooped in for an approach. “You wouldn’t be Grant, would you?” she asked, giving him the green-eyed stare that most boys seemed to find irresistible—most boys except Donny, the cheater, and he’d turned out to be the biggest asswipe ever.

The lounger checked her out. He saw an incredibly pretty girl with clouds of dark curls and a killer bod. “That a new pickup line?” he said, looking her up and down.

“Excuse me?” she said, frowning.

“You trying to pick me up?” he repeated, groping in his Levi’s for a stick of gum.

“No,” she said defensively. “If I was
trying
to pick you up, you’d know it.”

“Would I?” he said, peeling off the gum wrapper.

“Bet on it,” she answered, using one of her mom’s favorite sayings.

Crumpling the wrapper, he tossed it on the ground. “I’m not Grant,” he said. “Who is he anyway?”

“My friend.”

“Some friend,” he said derisively. “You’re not even sure what the dude looks like.”

She shrugged, attempting to appear casual. “I wondered if you were him, that’s all.”

“I’m not.”

“
Okay,”
she said, irritated. “I so get it.”

“Right.”

“Yes, right.”

Boys! They were like
such
a major pain. This one couldn’t have been more than eighteen, so he obviously wasn’t Grant, although she had to admit he was a real hottie, even if he
was
wearing a Lakers sweatshirt and she was a Clippers fan.

She wandered off, trying to remember whether Grant had said she should wait in her car or not. After a few minutes she glanced at her watch. It was almost one. Crap! Why hadn’t they fixed a time? She’d snuck out of the house early in case Lucky changed her mind, and now here she was wandering around a dumb-ass Kmart wasting precious time, because all they had together was two days.

Hmm … two days with a perfect stranger.

And what if he wasn’t perfect? What if he was some looney dork she hated on sight?

Oh no, that couldn’t happen, she’d informed Cookie and Harry she was going to have sex with her Internet dude. But what if she
hated
him?

Grant was twenty-two. She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d probably expect her to be experienced—especially as she’d said she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend. It
was one thing communicating with someone via the Internet, but actually meeting them was way different.

Oh double crap! This was turning out to be
so
not such a clever idea. She’d embarked on this adventure full of bravado. Now all that bravado was beginning to crumble.

Maybe she should make a run for it and drive home before Grant appeared.

But how could she? Losing face with Cookie and Harry was
definitely
not on her agenda.

She had to go through with it and that, unfortunately, was that.

Chapter 19

Getting bored easily was a state of mind, and Anthony Bonar often found himself in that state of mind. He craved action at all times, and after a long meeting with Renee he did not feel like sitting alone with her and Susie for dinner. Susie was a pain in the ass. There was something about her he didn’t like and he had a strong hunch the feeling was mutual. He needed some excitement. He was in the mood for a one-night stand—a girl who was sexier than Emmanuelle and more exciting than Carlita. His two mistresses were adequate, but occasionally he desired a new body to play with. Tonight he decided that body should be black.

His requirements were specific. She had to be a knockout, in her twenties, not a whore, and smart.

He informed Renee of his requirements. She nodded, as if finding such a girl was no problem.

He retired to his suite, took a nap, and when he awoke there was a message from Renee that she’d found just the girl for him.

Renee never disappointed.

He joined Renee and Susie for dinner in one of the hotel’s restaurants. Susie was a fragile blonde in her forties with birdlike features and a slight facial tic. Her famous country singer husband, Cyrus, had choked to death on a chicken bone six months after their wedding, which was fortunate for Susie, who’d always preferred female company. A year after
Cyrus’s demise she’d met Renee and true love had bloomed. Anthony was uneasy in their company—the whole dyke thing disturbed him.

The girl Renee had set him up with was half Ethiopian and half Portuguese. She was twenty-nine, six feet tall, and striking in a regal ethnic way. Her name was Tasmin, and according to Renee, she was not a whore, although Anthony wasn’t too sure about that. He trusted Renee— but not completely. How had she come up with this exotic creature on such short notice if the girl wasn’t a professional?

“Where’d you dig this one up?” he asked Renee when, after dinner, Tasmin excused herself and went off to the ladies’ room.

“You said you wanted smart,” Renee replied, sipping a hefty brandy. “She’s a bank manager, works at the bank I use.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Anthony spluttered.

“Would I do that to you?” Renee said calmly. “She’s very astute and a genius with numbers. I’d love to steal her away to work for me.”

“Oh, no no
no
!” interrupted Susie. “I’m not having
her
around you all day.”

“Surely you trust me, Susie?” Renee asked.

“Not with
her
,” Susie answered, pouting.

“C’mon, sweetie, don’t be like that,” Renee said, putting her arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders. “You
know
you can trust me.”

“I do?” Susie responded, batting her eyelashes. “Perhaps you should try to convince me.”

“Christ!” Anthony complained. “Can’t you two dykes give it a rest?”

“So
sorry
if we’ve offended your macho sensibilities,” Renee said bitingly as Tasmin returned to the table.

Anthony decided he’d been social for long enough. He leaned toward Tasmin, placing his hand over hers. “Tas, baby,” he said, as if they were the oldest of friends. “I hear
ya good with numbers. Wanna count how many steps it takes t’get to my suite?”

Regal, ethnic Tasmin turned out to be a freak in the bedroom. Anthony had expected hot, but this one was a total fucking maniac, and strong with it. She practically
raped
him.

He was taken by surprise. They arrived in his suite, he opened a bottle of champagne, and suddenly, like a wild tiger, Tasmin sprung into action, ripping off her clothes, grabbing his pants and pulling them down, fastening her mouth on him until he was so hard he thought he might explode.

Then she pushed him—with a great deal of unexpected strength—onto the bed, leapt aboard, and straddled him, going at it like an athlete on the way to the finishing line.

He was too shocked to object. This was a whole new experience for a man who was always on top and always in charge. And come to think of it, it wasn’t a bad experience at that. Tasmin certainly knew what she was doing—that is, until she produced a set of gold-plated handcuffs from her purse and attempted to fasten them around his wrists.

“What the fuck ya doin’?” he demanded, hurriedly rolling away from her.

“Relax,” she said calmly. “I can promise you’ll enjoy the experience. Surely you’ve tried it before?”

“Not me, honey,” he growled. “Enough is enough.”

Tasmin was a woman of few words. “Handcuff
me
, then,” she ordered. “Handcuff me to the bed and go down on me.”

“What?” Anthony spluttered. He was an Italian American macho man with standards, there was no way he’d go down on a woman, that was
their
job, oral sex was all about the woman giving the
man
pleasure. Who did this douche bag think she was dealing with?

“If that’s what you’re lookin’ for, you’re outta luck, honey,” he said, thinking it was time he got rid of her.

“Why?” she asked boldly. “The taste of pussy frighten you?”

This one was definitely trying his patience. He’d fucked her—or rather, she’d fucked him. Now he wanted her out.

“This little party is over,” he said, getting up, walking to the bathroom door and reaching for a bathrobe.

“You think?” Tasmin said, squatting on the bed—all erect nipples and satiny milk chocolate skin.

“I know.”

She laughed.

Was she laughing at him?

Would she dare?

“Somethin’ funny?” he snarled, giving her a cold-eyed glare.

“You,” she replied, coolly swinging her handcuffs back and forth as she knelt on the bed.

“Me, huh?” he said, a slow anger beginning to build within him. “I’m funny, huh?”

“You so-called macho guys from New York and Miami, you’re all the same when it comes to sex. Scared little Mommys’ boys. Mustn’t get too down ’n’ dirty. Mustn’t do bad things or Mommy will spank your little bottom.”

Was she talking to
him
, Anthony Bonar? Was this smart-mouthed
puttana
disrespecting
him?

Hadn’t Renee told her who he was? Hadn’t Renee warned her to treat him nice?

“Get the fuck out,” he said, his voice hard.

“My pleasure, Mr. Nothing,” she answered. “I’ll go, and you can run on back to Mommy, I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”

Something snapped. Something bad. He’d had a long day and he didn’t need this shit.

Without thinking about the consequences, he went for her, slapping her across the face with the back of his hand, his pinky ring cutting open her cheek.

“You dumb cunt, nobody talks t’me like that,” he shouted. “Now GET OUT.”

Tasmin had some moves of her own. She’d taken self-defense classes and did not take kindly to being assaulted. She made a fatal mistake. She slapped him back.

That a woman would dare to attack him was beyond his comprehension. The last person who’d physically attacked him had ended up in a ditch with his throat slit.

She must be insane
, he thought as he whacked her across the face again, getting blood on the sleeve of his bathrobe.

She was angry too. She fought back, leaping upon him until the two of them fell on the bed, wrestling for the power position.

This woman was one strong motherfucker; she almost had him pinned down.

Bringing his knee up he jammed it into her stomach, grabbed a handful of her hair, and sharply jerked her head back, snapping her neck.

“You fucking
bitch!”
he screamed. “You think you can talk to me like that an’ get away with it? You get the fuck outta here now.” And he shoved her away from him with all his strength.

She fell onto the floor next to the bed.

Muttering to himself, he went into the bathroom. “You better be outta here by the time I come out,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Shrugging off the bathrobe, he stepped into the shower and stood under the cold stinging water, reaching for the soap and thoroughly lathering his cock and balls.

What if she had AIDS? He hadn’t used a condom, she hadn’t given him time to even think about using one.

JESUS CHRIST! Wait until he got hold of Renee and told her about this. She should be more careful about who she recommended, he was getting too old for this shit. He had Emmanuelle, and Carlita, and he had a wife sitting on her fat ass in Mexico City. So what did he need other whores for? And although Renee had assured him that this one
wasn’t
a whore, she’d certainly acted like one.

Now that he got to thinking about it, she was even worse than a whore. She was supposed to be so smart and intelligent, but in his mind he decided she was nothing but a cheap nympho slut with a bad attitude.

After toweling off, he went back into the bedroom and
was surprised to see that she was still there. He couldn’t believe it: there she was, lying on the floor exactly where he’d left her.