The Santangelos (52 page)

“But I
am
her mom,” Pammy said, confused.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Only hand these fuckers an ounce of authority, an’ they might try t’ gimme a hard time if they get a sniff I’m not a relative.”

“I understand,” Pammy said, changing her first opinion of Jeff Williams. It occurred to her that she might have been slightly off; he had a strong macho personality that went a long way to making up for the leathery skin and burgeoning paunch. She also suspected that he was into her.

She wondered if he had money—not a fortune; enough to make her happy would do.

Mrs. Jeff Williams. It had quite a pleasant ring to it.

*   *   *

Felicity’s phone buzzed.

“We’re downstairs in the lobby,” Jeff said. “You wanna come an’ get us?”

“Us”? Who was “us”? He hadn’t mentioned that he would be bringing someone. Could it be his photographer? She wished she’d washed her hair; she was sure they’d want to photograph her.

Bypassing Shaquita, who was on the phone at the nurses’ desk, Felicity took the elevator downstairs. She immediately spotted the couple. Jeff Williams was hard to miss in his red shirt and crumpled blue jacket. The woman with him was also quite a sight in a too-tight yellow flowered dress and exceptionally high heels. Felicity approached them. “Jeff?” she questioned.

“That’s me,” he said, winking at her.

“I’m Felicity.”

“Yes you are,” Jeff said with a genial smile. “Bonus points,” he added, indicating Pammy. “This is Willow’s mom.”

“Oh,” Felicity said, disappointed. “I thought she might be your photographer. I don’t mind having my photo taken.” A pause. “That’s if you want to.”

“Sure,” Jeff said, used to dealing with what he called “civilians.” “Maybe later, ’cause right now we gotta go see our little girl.” Another wink. “I’m playin’ Daddy, get it?”

No. Felicity didn’t get it. Full of even more disappointment, she led them toward the elevator, getting a noseful of stale cigarette smoke and booze.

This was not how she’d imagined it would be.

Should she ask him for her money now? Or was it best to wait?

She couldn’t decide.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

Unaware of a room filled with tension, Tariq walked in and was surprised to see that Faisal had visitors.

“Grandfather says you’re making too much noise,” he muttered to Faisal. “It disturbs him.”

Lucky took one look at the teenage boy, and the image of Armand Jordan came rushing into her head. The boy looked exactly like him; he had the slightly hooded eyes, the sharp nose, the same features. This had to be the son of Armand Jordan—the man who’d been shot to death in her hotel, the man who’d tried to buy the Keys and failed, the man who’d said to her as he’d marched from her office in a fury, “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 run back into the bedroom where you belong.”

Armand Jordan. She’d never forgotten his ignorant words. He’d been a delusional, pathetic man who’d spent his time in Vegas ordering up hookers that he’d refused to pay, gambling, drinking, and drugging. Now his son was here. And the son’s grandfather was King Emir.

On impulse she grabbed the boy’s arm in a steely grip. “Take me to your grandfather,” she commanded. “Take me right now.”

Startled, Tariq looked to Faisal. Faisal attempted to move toward them. Chris blocked him.

One of the guards stepped forward. “Back off,” Chris growled, pushing back his jacket to reveal a gun stuck in his belt.

“Let’s go, kid,” Lucky said to the boy.

Tariq’s eyes were wide with anticipation. This was more exciting than sitting beside his grandfather being bored to death.

*   *   *

After checking Ian’s office and not finding Lucky, Bobby headed back to the lobby, where he ran into a pale-faced Ian emerging from the penthouse elevator.

“Have you seen Lucky?” he asked.

“She’s up in the penthouse suite,” Ian replied, thinking it was definitely time he moved back to England. These people were insane with their out-of-control accusations. He didn’t care to work for them anymore.

“What’s she doing there?”

“Harassing the king of Akramshar, who just spent millions of dollars at this hotel.”

“Why’s she doing that when everyone’s waiting for her?”

“Your
mother
,” Ian said tightly, “seems to be under the false impression that King Emir is involved in a ridiculous plot to create some sort of havoc during the ceremony.”

“What plot?”

“There
is
no plot,” Ian said testily. “I’m afraid this is out of my hands. I cannot believe this is happening. Your mother has an extremely fertile imagination.”

“My
mother
,” Bobby said sharply, “is not a woman to be messed with. And you seem to be forgetting that you work for her, so I suggest you think before you speak.”

Ian threw Bobby a spiteful look. “What’s it like to live in Lucky Santangelo’s shadow?” he asked.

“Fuck you,” Bobby retorted.

“Most eloquent,” Ian sneered, already planning his letter of resignation.

Bobby ignored him and pressed the button for the elevator. He didn’t have time to exchange barbs with an uptight prick like Ian Simmons. He had other things on his mind, and that was to find Lucky and get her outside to the ceremony.

*   *   *

Tariq wondered what his grandfather was going to say when he appeared with this woman who was so unlike the women of Akramshar. This woman was strong and determined. She was also very beautiful—even though she was older. He wanted to ask her why she was here. He wanted to know her name. She had clouds of black hair and she smelled of jasmine and peaches. Her eyes were darker than night.

The man with her had produced a gun. Tariq had a gun too, but his gun was back in Akramshar. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on his twelfth birthday, then later he’d presented him with a solid gold gun. It was one of his most prized possessions.

Tariq’s mouth was dry. He’d witnessed the king’s wrath before, and when King Emir was approached by this woman, surely it would be bad? He only hoped that he would not get the blame.

“Who … who are you?” he stammered as they approached the outside terrace. “What do you want with my grandfather?”

*   *   *

“This is a joke,” Senator Peter Richmond steamed. “We’ve been sitting out here in the heat for almost half an hour. I’ve had enough.”

“What did you expect?” his wife, Betty, scoffed. “May I remind you that this is a Lucky Santangelo event. Tasteless and flashy—exactly like the woman herself. I do not know why you insisted we attend.”

“I have my reasons,” Peter responded, thinking of the incriminating photos he was desperate to get his hands on.

Betty threw him a venomous look. She knew exactly why they were there; nothing got past Betty.

“I need to use the restroom,” Peter said, standing up. “Craven, you come with me.”

Craven jumped up. Obeying his father was always number one on his list of things to do.

*   *   *

A few seats away, Annabelle complained to Eddie that she felt sick. “I can’t take sitting out here sweating my ass off,” she said with a petulant sigh. “Don’t they realize there’s a pregnant woman present? Why isn’t this thing starting?”

“Like
I
would know,” Eddie responded. He was as irritated as his wife, although he was also determined to see it through. After all, there were important people everywhere, and networking was his life.

*   *   *

“Whyn’t we take a walk and get high?” Cookie suggested to Harry.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Harry said, getting up.

The two of them headed for the interior of the hotel.

*   *   *

Paige stamped her foot impatiently. Had she been in charge, things would be moving at a much brisker pace. She suspected that this holdup was a devious plan for Lucky to get even more attention when she finally made her entrance.

Bud was driving her mad with his incessant chatter about his glory days. Who gave a damn? It wasn’t as if he’d been in the Dean Martin/Sinatra league. He was a long-forgotten has-been, and Paige wished she’d given Darlene the honor of sitting with her. But she hadn’t, and it was too late now.

*   *   *

Next to Brigette and her Swedish girlfriend, Steven was pleased to have reconnected with Beverly Villiers, who’d flown in from Chicago for the ceremony. Beverly and he had had quite a thing going years earlier, and she was still looking damn good. Plus she was a successful lawyer, and nothing turned Steven on more than a smart woman.

Steven didn’t mind that Lucky was keeping everyone waiting, since it gave him more of a chance to catch up with Beverly.

*   *   *

“I need me a Jack on the rocks,” Charlie Dollar mumbled to Venus. “Gino an’ I used to sit around an’ knock ’em back like real men. You wanna go get me one, doll?”

“Do I bear any resemblance to a cocktail waitress?” Venus retorted, shooting him a disparaging look.

Charlie chuckled. “You always had balls, just like Lucky. I admire that in a woman.”

“You just admire women,” Venus said sagely. “Any shape, size, age, or color. If it’s female and breathing, you’ll fuck it.”

“You got that right,” Charlie said with another ribald chuckle.

“I know,” Venus said smiling.

“Hey,” Charlie said. “Isn’t it about time t’ get this damn show on the road?”

“It certainly is,” she agreed, fanning herself with the program and wondering where Bobby had vanished to.

*   *   *

“Why’re we just sitting here?” Gino Junior asked Lennie. “This is stupid. Where’s Mom?”

“Bobby’s gone to get her,” Lennie said, and for a moment it occurred to him that Lucky might be right. Could it be that something bad
was
about to take place? Should he get the boys out of there like she’d asked?

No. Now he was being paranoid. Lucky was taking her time because saying good-bye to Gino was not easy. This would be her final good-bye, and he felt her grief and sorrow.

After today, things would be better. Life would go on, and the good news was that Lucky was a true survivor. She would get over Gino’s death, and when she did, she could start to celebrate her father’s spectacular life. It was time.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

“Kitten!” Pammy crooned, leaning over Willow’s bed in full caring mom mode.

Willow’s eyes snapped open.

“My poor baby kitten. Tell Mommy exactly what happened to you.”

And just like that it all came back to her. Club Luna. Alejandro and his creepy friend. The dark-haired girl with a boy’s name. Alejandro’s new car.

We’re on our way to Vegas!

Then crash, bang, hurtling through darkness, followed by pain and blackness.

“Oh … my … God,” Willow muttered. “Am I alive?”

“Silly girl,” Pammy singsonged. “Course you’re alive.”

“What … what are
you
doing here? How did you find me?”

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“Where’s Alejandro?”

“Who?”

“Alejandro, my boyfriend,” Willow said, panicking. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Standing back, Felicity decided it was time for her to intervene.

“Willow is suffering from a slight concussion,” Felicity said in her most authoritative nurse’s voice. “Best that she doesn’t get too agitated.”

Now it was Jeff’s turn to step forward. “You’re lookin’ good, Willow,” he said as if they were old friends. “So how’s about you tell me who was in the car with you. This Alejandro dude got a surname?”

“Alejandro Diego,” Willow murmured. “We’re making a movie, getting the start-up money…” She trailed off and fixed her eyes on Jeff. “Who’re you?” she asked.

“A movie, huh?” Jeff said, his mind automatically drifting toward porno, because he sure as hell knew who Alejandro Diego was—the lowlife son of Colombian drug lord Pablo Fernandez Diego. He also knew from one of his informants that the car crash had incinerated the two males sitting up front. Only Willow and another girl had survived. He needed information on the other girl.

“I want a mirror,” Willow said.

“No you don’t,” Pammy said.

“Do I look that bad?” Willow wailed.

“Who else was in the car?” Jeff asked, thinking that he had to get this up on his Web site as quickly as possible before the news leaked.

Willow was about to answer when Shaquita bustled into the room. “What’s goin’ on here?” Shaquita demanded, throwing Felicity a furious look. “Who are these people?”

“We’re her parents,” Jeff said, turning on his own brand of smarmy charm. “An’
you
gotta be the lovely nurse who’s been takin’ care of our little baby.”

Willow began to say something. Pammy quickly stopped her with a whispered, “Play along. We’re makin’ money an’ you’ll be getting’ some front-page publicity. Pretend he’s your daddy for now.”

Pammy was up to something, and Willow was too weak to argue. “Where’s Alejandro?” she repeated.

Dead,
Felicity wanted to say.
Your boyfriend is dead
. Only she remained silent, because it wasn’t up to her to be the bearer of such devastating news.

Shaquita was busy glaring at everyone; she couldn’t quite understand what was happening. One minute Felicity had told her the girl in room six was famous, then she’d changed her mind and said she wasn’t. So who were these people? How had they received the news that their daughter was in the hospital? And was the girl famous or not?

Confusion ruled. “I’m fetching Dr. Ferris,” Shaquita said, hurrying from the room.

Jeff took the opportunity to zero in on Willow. “Listen, hon,” he said, “this is important stuff. Who else was in the car with you?”

Willow attempted to sit. Her head hurt, but her thoughts were clearing. “Alejandro,” she muttered. “And a girl—Max something. Also Alejandro’s Italian friend, Dante Agnelli. Is everyone all right?”

Bingo! Jeff had names. He could run with his story. The fucker was all his.

He reached for his cell phone and quickly googled Dante Agnelli, discovering that Dante was part of the well-known, ultrarich Dolcezza fashion dynasty in Italy. As for the other girl … “Who’s Max?” he asked, craving a cigarette.