Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (32 page)

Then he started thinking—was she seeing someone else? Did he have competition?

“I have to get back,” she said.

He had a sudden insane desire to take her in his arms, hold her, and kiss her. He’d never felt like this about any woman. Before Lucky, he’d considered they were only there to put a smile on his face. Now he had this juvenile crush.

She walked inside. “By the way,” she said over her shoulder, “anything going on at my studio I should know about?”

He liked the way she still called it her studio. The woman had a no-defeat attitude he truly admired.

“I haven’t met Donna Landsman yet,” he said, following her into the house. “I have that pleasure in store tonight.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Didn’t you just invite me to dinner?”

“Hey—come with me.”

“Where?”

“Mickey Stolli’s having a dinner for Donna at his house.”

“Jesus!” Lucky said. “Trust Mickey to be right in there, kissing ass.”

“So like I said—come with me.”

Lucky considered the possibilities. Face-to-face with Donna Landsman in a social situation. Donna unaware that she knew her true identity. Mickey would shit himself if she turned up at his house. It was a tempting prospect. “Who else is going?”

“I can have my secretary find out.” Now it was his turn to look at her quizzically. “I thought you had other plans.”

“I can always change my mind.”

So can I
, he thought. Once more, Tin Lee would be left at the altar. “So,” he said, “dinner here, watching the sunset, wasn’t good enough. But you’ll consider coming to Mickey’s?”

She laughed. “The only reason I
might
consider it is because I wouldn’t mind sitting across the table from Donna Landsman—seeing what she has to say. And as for Mickey—well, he and I are deadly enemies. Just to see his face when I walk in…the kicker being he can’t do a damn thing about it because I’ll be with you.”

“You know, Lucky, you have a way of making a guy feel really good about himself. First of all, you sleep with me, then tell me it doesn’t mean anything. Now you’ll go to a dinner party with me only to get back at the people who’re there. Thanks, babe, my ego’s in overdrive.”

“You want me to come or not?”

His eyes met hers. There was electricity in the air. “Yeah, I want you to come.”

“Then call me in half an hour.” She laughed softly. “I promise I’ll take the call.”

He walked her out to her car. She got in her red Ferrari and drove home.

Things were shaping up.

BEING THE MAJORITY SHAREHOLDER OF A BIG
Hollywood studio was far more rewarding than Donna Landsman had imagined. The day her takeover of Panther Studios was announced in the trades, she’d received flowers from dozens of people she didn’t know—including several movie stars, and many important executives in the film industry.

Donna had never met anyone famous in her life, so when Abigaile Stolli called, informing her she’d like to throw a dinner party in her honor, Donna was delighted—especially when Abigaile revealed the stellar guest list. It was an impressive lineup.

Donna had her secretary call to get Santo invited. When she told him, he immediately sulked. “Don’t
wanna
go,” he complained.

“Of course, you do,” she replied in her
I’m taking no nonsense from you
voice. “You’ll meet all those famous people. They might do you some good in the future, connections are everything.”

On reflection, he’d decided it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. At least he’d get a decent meal for a change. He hated his mother’s cooking, and the cook she employed was even worse. The old bag made nothing but dried-up
pasta and unappetizing tomato sauce with dull salads. Hint, hint—his mother wanted him to lose weight. Well, screw her, before all the dieting and plastic surgery she was no beauty. He remembered when she was his father’s wife—the old Donatella. It was like that woman had died and this over-made-up cow had come to take her place.

“Is George going?” he asked.

“Of course he is,” Donna replied. “I wish you’d try to get along with George. You make no attempt.”

“Maybe if he stopped pretending like he’s my father,” Santo said with a surly glare. “The way he acts sucks.”

“George has
never
tried to take the place of your father,” Donna admonished.

“Yes, he has,” Santo mumbled. “He’s always on my case.”

He knew George had disapproved when she’d informed him about the Ferrari, he’d heard them screaming from his room. Well, Donna was screaming—George never raised his voice. Donna, of courses had won.

Santo considered George to be an ineffectual worm. Donna kicked him around good. Santo couldn’t understand why she kept him when it was quite obvious she’d be better off divorcing the spineless creep. Maybe if she was going to meet movie stars, she’d find somebody she liked better. Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone. Yeah! That was the ticket! A stepfather he could respect.

“You have to wear a suit and a tie,” Donna informed him.

“Why? Are we going to church?” Santo replied with a rude smirk.

“It’s only proper,” Donna said, concerned about her own outfit. She was not used to mixing with movie stars, it made her feel insecure.

Santo was aware he could get away with almost anything, but tonight he knew she’d force him to put on a
dumb suit. He went to his room and sulked. Didn’t she realize he looked even fatter in the one suit he possessed?

Locking his bedroom door, he crossed the room and opened his closet. Hidden in the back was the shotgun he’d recently purchased from the movie star’s son at school. Yeah! He’d gotten himself a shotgun and two boxes of bullets. Shit! Talk about a power trip! Anytime he wanted, he could blow them both away.

Donna first.

George second.

POW! Just like that.

The fact that he owned the gun made him so psyched that he decided to write another letter to Venus. In his mind, they were getting closer every day, bonding, exactly like people in love should.

He imagined her reading his letters, wondering who he was, wishing and hoping they’d meet soon and be together forever.

He’d started delivering his letters personally—choosing the early hours of the morning to do so. He’d creep down the hillside above her estate, and force his way through the brush with not much effort. Then he’d scale the wall and deliver his latest offering. The stupid guard was always asleep. Her security sucked, big-time.

He had a favorite routine. Write Venus a letter. Jerk off.

Write another one. Jerk off again.

Life wasn’t so bad after all.

Venus had the best day doing nothing. In the afternoon, Ron came over and sat by the pool with her. She’d noticed that lately he was spending more and more time at her house.

“Have you and Anthony closed the deal yet?” she inquired with a mischievous smile.

“Don’t ask things like that,” Ron replied testily. “You’re just a nasty, curious, little girl.”

“Why? ’Cause I want you to move out of that mausoleum you’re living in?”

“No, because it’s none of your business.”

“I tell
you
all about Rodriguez,” she said, sipping a Diet Coke through a straw.

“Where is he today?”

“Driving me crazy. I mean, he’s under the false impression that he and I are a couple. He thinks that after a few great lays, we’re Mr. and Mrs. America. Poor Anthony’s running interference on the phone.”

“I notice you’ve hired a new guard.”

“Yeah, that other one was a moron. Every time I came home, there was somebody else waiting in my house. This one seems more together. I’m hoping he can catch the crazy who keeps on hand-delivering letters to my house.”

“What letters?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been receiving porno crap from some nutcase who thinks we’re gonna be married and run off into the sunset. I mean this guy is
really
out there.”

“I presume you’ve handed them over to the authorities?”

She removed her sunglasses and threw her head back, catching rays. “I will when I get around to it. Anthony’s keeping a file.”

“It only takes one deranged fan to shoot a bullet into you.”

“Thanks, Ron. That’s very encouraging. You’ve made me feel much safer!”

Late in the afternoon, after Ron had left, Anthony buzzed to inform her that Rodriguez was at the front door, practically in tears.

“Okay,” she said, relenting. “Send him over to the house.”

Rodriguez burst through the front door carrying flowers. “Have I offended you, my princess?” he asked, liquid eyes full of love.

“No, Rodriguez,” she said firmly. “Only you must realize we’re not
living
together. We’re not even girlfriend/boyfriend. I need my space.”

“What are we then?” he asked, looking hurt.

“You’re my masseur,” she said, deciding to go the honest route. “And I pay you for your services.”

He was crestfallen. “Is that all I am?” he asked mournfully.

She figured it was better to let him down sooner than later. “Yes, Rodriguez, that’s all you are.”

She knew she probably sounded cold and unfeeling, but surely it was best to end it this way before he got too caught up in the whole scene?

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” he said tightly.

“That’s okay,” she said, glancing at her watch. It was around five. “Do you have time to give me a massage now?” she asked, attempting to soften the blow.

“Of course,” he said stiffly.

“I’ll meet you in there.”

She went upstairs, took a shower, wrapped a towel around herself toga style, and strolled into the massage room.

Rodriguez had changed into white cotton chinos and a short-sleeved T-shirt—his working clothes.

She observed, as she always did, that he was incredibly good-looking. Maybe someone would discover him and make him into a star.

She got onto the table, lying on her stomach. Rodriguez whisked the towel from under her. She didn’t have any false modesty—he’d seen it all, and then some.

“Use the lemon oil today,” she suggested. “I love the smell.”

“Certainly,” Rodriguez replied obligingly, pouring a
small puddle of oil in the center of her back and rubbing it in with his firm fingers. He began humming a Latin song under his breath. A good sign; at least she hadn’t broken his heart.

She closed her eyes and let go, thinking about Cooper. The other night he’d been so convincing in his quest to win her back. “I’ve changed,” he’d told her. “We can get back together any time you say. I’ll never stray again, it’s not worth it.”

Sure, Coop
, she’d thought.
You’ve been doing it for thirty years. Why would you change for me
?

Fortunately, she was not naive.

Rodriguez’s hands were on her ass, kneading, moving in circles, creeping closer and closer to the crack.

“Rodriguez,” she murmured sleepily. “Remember, this is a business arrangement. I can’t be your girlfriend.”

“I understand,” he said, hands still working it, spreading the cheeks of her ass.

“No, don’t do that,” she said not too convincingly.

“In Argentina,” he said, “when a woman says no…sometimes it is safe to assume she means yes.”

She felt the tip of his insistent tongue.

Oh, God! One more time. After that she would never encourage him again.

“
HE’S HERE,” BOOGIE SAID
.

“How did you get him to come back?” Lucky said.

“He tried to skip town. I persuaded him not to.”

“Does he have an answer for us?”

“Listen for yourself.”

She followed Boogie to the garage. Same scenario. There was Sami the Mutt trapped in a chair, red-rimmed eyes darting furtively around the closed space like a trapped animal searching for a way out.

This time she carried her own gun—a small silver automatic she’d owned for several years. She had no intention of using it on this pathetic excuse for a man. However, there was nothing wrong with scaring the crap out of him. He’d shot her father, narrowly missing little Maria by inches. His intention had been to kill Gino for money. If it had happened, she’d have blown him away without another thought—this worthless piece of human excrement.

She stood in front of him, casually holding her gun down in front of her so he couldn’t miss seeing it. “Do you have a name for me, Sami?” she asked, her voice echoing around the empty garage. “I hope you do, because today I’m not in the mood to fuck around.”

Sami glanced first at the gun, then over at Boogie, who’d propped himself against the wall. “Go ahead,” Boogie said easily. “Tell her.”

“John Fardo, he hired me,” Sami mumbled, sweat bubbling on his forehead.

“Tell her who that is,” Boogie encouraged.

“John’s a limo driver. One of his clients had him set up the job.”

“What client?” Lucky asked, her black eyes deadly and watchful.

“Dunno,” Sami said in a strained voice. “John works at Galaxy Star Limo—it’s on Sepulveda.” Sweat dripped down his ratlike face as he squirmed in the chair. “You gonna let me go now?”

“Get this piece of shit out of here, Boogie,” she said, walking to the door. “And make sure he takes the money he was paid and gives it all to charity. Every cent.”

She returned to the house, thinking that they didn’t make hit men like they used to. Fortunately for Gino, Sami the Mutt was a blundering amateur with no balls.

She sat in the den, dialed information, and got the number of the limo company. Then she called them. “You have a John Fardo working there,” she said, very businesslike. “He usually drives Mrs. Landsman…Mrs. Donna Landsman…is that correct?”

The receptionist asked her to hold a moment, came back, and said, “That’s right, ma’am.”

“Fine. I need to contact Mrs. Landsman later. Will John be driving her tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am. He drives her every night.”

Big
surprise.

Alex was delighted when Lucky called and said she could make it. He told her he’d pick her up at seven,
then immediately tried reaching Tin Lee to cancel. She wasn’t home.

This made him very nervous, as Tin Lee knew the dinner was at Mickey Stolli’s. He phoned Lili at home.

“How did the location scout go?” Lili asked.

He could hear her TV playing in the background and wondered if she was alone. “Fine,” he said. “Uh, listen…I’ve had a change of plans, I can’t take Tin Lee to the Stollis’.”

“Did you call her?”

“I tried, she’s not home. What can I do?”

Lili turned her TV down. “You’ll have to meet her at your apartment and tell her the bad news.”

“I was planning on staying at the beach.”

“Shall I call the Stollis to cancel?”

“No, don’t do that,” he said quickly. “I’m still going.”

“
You’re
still going,” Lili repeated patiently, “only you’re not taking Tin Lee.”

“You got it.”

“Do you have another date?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Then I suggest you reach Tin Lee as fast as possible.”

“That’s smart of you, Lili, but I thought I just told you, I can’t fucking reach her.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” she said, unfazed by his growing anger. “There’s nothing
I
can do.”

He had a sneaking suspicion Lili quite enjoyed his romantic screwups. “Okay, okay,” he said, pissed off that she wouldn’t help. “
Don’t
come up with a solution.”

He called the hall porter at his apartment building on Wilshire. “I’m expecting a guest at seven. When she arrives, tell her I’ve been held up on business and can’t make dinner tonight. She’s to go home and wait for me to call her. Have you got that?”

“Yes, Mr. Woods,” said the desk porter.

“You’re
sure
?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Woods.”

Alex didn’t know what else he could do. If he drove back into town to take care of it himself, he’d be late picking Lucky up. The smart thing was to stay at the beach.

He went into his bathroom and tried to decide what to wear. Black, of course, because he never wore anything else. A black silk shirt, black Armani jacket, black pants. It was a look.

Christ! He was as nervous as a teenager going on a first date. This was a joke.

After dressing, he went to his bar, stared at a bottle of vodka, and decided against it. Half a joint would take the edge off. Had to be alert.

He consulted his watch, nearly seven.

One joint and he’d be ready for anything.

Mickey got in his car and left the studio. He hadn’t heard from Venus since her surprise visit. He didn’t know if this was good or bad. What the hell? She’d come around. Now he was head of Panther again, anything could happen. And he wanted it to happen desperately, because Venus was one hot babe, and it was time for him to get a piece of that juicy action.

Being back at Panther was a relief. Running Orpheus Studios had never been his kind of deal—answering to the Japanese, keeping everything aboveboard and respectable. Mickey was used to doing things his way, he did not enjoy kowtowing to anyone.

He called Abigaile from the car to check on their party. She immediately started bitching because she didn’t know the names of Cooper Turner’s or Johnny Romano’s dates.

“Who gives a shit?” Mickey said, eyeing a blond in a black Mercedes who’d pulled up alongside.

“What am I to write on their place cards?” Abigaile wailed.

“Write it when they arrive,” he said impatiently. The blond zoomed past. He didn’t give chase.

“Calligraphy is not one of my talents,” Abigaile snapped. “I have a person who writes my cards.”

His wife could be a real pain in the ass, although he had to admit that since they’d reconciled, things were better than they’d been before the split. Two years ago she’d thrown him out after she’d caught him with Warner. Being out on his own was no fun. Hotel life was a drag, he’d yearned for the comforts of home. In fact, to his amazement, he’d even missed Abigaile.

Yes, Abigaile, who gave great party
and
organized his social life, was a definite asset.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t screw around when the feeling hit him.

Abigaile hung up on Mickey, annoyed because he didn’t understand. “Consuela,” she called, summoning her housekeeper. “We do not have the names for these two place cards.”

Consuela shook her head—like it mattered. These American women worried about the craziest things.

Abigaile held up the card with Mickey’s name on. “Can you copy this calligraphy?”

Consuela stared at her blankly.

“The
writing
,” Abigaile said, raising her voice. “Can you
copy
it?”

“Sure, Mrs.,” Consuela said with a
What do you think I am, an idiot?
shrug.

“Tell the butler to give you the names of the ladies
with Mr. Turner and Mr. Romano, then write them on the blank cards.”

“Yes, Mrs.”

“Make sure you do it properly.”

That problem solved, she now had to decide what to wear. She had two outfits on standby—a Nolan Miller beaded two-piece evening suit, or a blue Valentino dress. They were both hanging in her vast closet, awaiting Mickey’s approval.

She went upstairs and peered in her makeup mirror. A professional makeup artist had come by earlier in the day to do her face. Abigaile was very fussy about her skin and insisted on certain products. For cleansing and skin care she used Peter Thomas Roth—his line was fragrance-free and helped reduce the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. Hmm…anything to get rid of wrinkles. She’d discovered these products on a vacation in Aspen, and refused to use anything else. Over Peter Thomas Roth went Estée Lauder, with a touch of Borghese around the eyes.

Satisfied with her face, she began worrying about her daughter. What bizarre creation was Tabitha going to spring on them tonight? Last week they’d taken her to Trader Vic’s for a family dinner. She’d worn a torn satin slip, fake tattoos all over her arms, and clumpy Doc Marten boots. Not a pretty sight. Mickey had sworn he’d never be seen in public with her again.

Abigaile decided she’d better check, so she hurried up to her daughter’s room.

Tabitha was lying on her bed clad in a T-shirt and striped men’s underpants watching Axel Rose on MTV. Bon Jovi blasted from the CD player. The combination of noise was deafening.

“Aren’t you getting ready?” Abigaile screamed over the din.

“S’ okay,” Tabitha replied, waving vaguely in her mother’s direction.

“I hope you’re wearing that dress I bought you at Neiman’s,” Abigaile said, still shouting.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tabitha replied, casually twirling the gold ring she’d recently had stapled to her navel.

Abigaile shuddered and backed out of the indescribably messy room.

She wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but she couldn’t wait until Tabitha moved out.

Venus decided on red—a drop-dead Alaïa dress with practically no back and plenty of daring cleavage. She hoped it would drive Mickey insane with lust. Even Alex might be impressed, he had to have
some
feelings.

Anthony was working late. She had him come up to her bedroom and check her out.

“Divine!” he exclaimed with just the right amount of genuine adoration.

“Divine enough for them to cast me as Lola?”

Anthony nodded respectfully. “There
is
no other actress for the role.”

He certainly knew the correct things to say.

Johnny’s limo arrived shortly after. It was a double stretch—bigger than any she’d ever seen.

She wondered if his dick was as big as his limo. Ha, ha! She was
not
about to find out.

Johnny whistled at her dress. She complimented him on his gray sharkskin suit and black gangster-type shirt. He helped her into the car, copping a surreptitious feel. She pretended she didn’t notice.

Johnny’s limo driver was a beautiful black woman. Two female bodyguards sat ramrod straight up front.

“Do you really need all this?” Venus asked, settling in the backseat.

“Sure, babe, an’ you should have the same,” he said with a sly smile. “It’s tax deductible.”

My—what big teeth you have
, she thought as he reached for a bottle of Cristal and poured her a glass. Rap music serenaded them on low volume.

She accepted the glass of champagne and thought about the letters she’d been receiving. “Who deals with your fan mail?” she asked.

“Never read it—don’t wanna see it,” he replied, gulping the champagne as if it were water. “I get a lotta crazy letters.”

“Me, too. Lately I’ve had obscene letters arriving at my house. The envelopes turn up on my doorstep.”

He refilled his glass. “How does your guard let this happen?”

She shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

“You gotta deal with it. Beef up security, put a couple more guards on your property.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll recommend some people to you,” Johnny said, his hand falling casually onto her thigh. “When we’re working together, we both gotta be surrounded at all times.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she said, casually removing his hand. “Alex has decided to go with Leslie Kane. I’m out of the movie.”

“No way!” Johnny exclaimed, frowning.

“’Fraid so.”

“Impossible. Who told you this?”

“Freddie Leon.”

“You want I should do something about it?”

“If you like,” Venus said. “Only don’t expect any favors in return.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” Johnny said, swigging more champagne. “When Johnny says he’ll do somethin’—consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Venus answered demurely.

“It’s late,” Leslie said as Jeff ran into the house. “Where were you?”

“Jeez! I got held up at the gym, didn’t realize the time,” he said, totally out of breath.

“I’m dressed and ready to go,” Leslie pointed out. “We have to leave at seven-fifteen.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll throw myself in the shower and be out in a minute.” He raced into the bathroom.

What did he think she was? A moron? He’d been with another woman, she could smell it all over him. And even if she couldn’t, his wife had phoned to gloat. Yes, Jeff was married. Somehow he seemed to have developed a mild case of amnesia when it came to telling her. “I’m Amber,” the woman had said on the phone. “Jeff’s wife. If you don’t believe me, look in the back of his photo book—our marriage license is concealed behind the last photo.”

“Why are you calling?” Leslie had asked blankly.

“Thought you should know.”

“Thanks. Now I know.”

That had been several days ago. She had no idea why the wife had called and, quite frankly, she didn’t care, because Jeff wasn’t around to stay. Jeff was merely a convenience until she got Cooper back.

She’d checked out his photo book. He
was
a married man. A
lying
married man.

How foolish of him to pick tonight to liaise with his wife. How foolish of him to pick any night when he was with her.

She followed him into the bathroom. He was already in the shower, scrubbing his body with a soapy washcloth.

“Who was at the gym?” she asked. “Anybody I know?”

“No, it was kinda quiet,” he shouted over the noise of the running water.

God, he was a bad actor, no wonder he hadn’t gotten a break.

She picked up a bottle of scent from the countertop, spraying a generous amount behind her ears and between her cleavage. Cooper loved scent, smells turned him on.