Chances

by Jackie Collins

  “Hiya, honey,” she drawled, doing her best Mae West imitation, “wanna get a taste of some o’ my honey?”

  His erection deflated. It took her an hour and a half to persuade it to reappear. By that time they were both too tired to do anything about it.

  Another three days went by before the marriage was consummated. Then Lucky sobbed herself to sleep. It was the most disappointing event she had ever experienced. Was that it? A few jerky humps, a roll-over, and straight to sleep?

  Apparently Craven thought it was. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself. He developed a knowing leer, which drove her mad, and a desire to fuck once a night—before cleaning his teeth—for a duration of exactly three minutes each time. She could not interest him in Almost. He didn’t want to know about Almost. Sucking tits, caressing pussy, putting his cock in her mouth, and tongueing her were all no-no’s. Craven knew what a man did, and he had no intention of indulging in “perversions,” as he called them. He didn’t even care if she came or not—and who the hell could come with a stopwatch and a limp dick for company?

  Four years. What a waste.

  “One piña colada, ma’am.”

  Lucky opened her eyes and sat up.

  Craven said, “Mornin’. How are you today?”

  She took the drink from the pool boy, had another quick glance at his bulging crotch, smiled, and signed the check with a flourish.

  Then she turned and looked at her husband. She was no longer sweet sixteen, she was twenty, and divorce was on her mind all the time.

  “Ah, the zinc kid,” she drawled. Craven knew that covering his face in zinc ointment drove her crazy!

  “I didn’t sleep well,” he whined. “There was a mosquito in the room all night. Didn’t you hear it?”

  Craven always had a complaint about something. He was like an old man. “Nope. Did you get a little prick?” she inquired innocently.

  He stared at her oddly. “A sting, Lucky, a sting.”

  “Oh, yes. A sting.” A little prick was what she got. Occasionally. If she was fortunate. Or unfortunate. Depending on which way one looked at it.

  Two months after the honeymoon, Craven had cut down his lovemaking routine to once a week, then once a month, then to whenever the feeling took him—which wasn’t often. She had reconciled herself to the fact that he didn’t like sex much. Gino had forced her to marry because he thought she was some kind of budding nymphomaniac. It didn’t take her long before she decided to prove him right.

  She took her first lover before the honeymoon was over: the Marco copy who managed the hotel. Her father’s employee. Perfect. She seduced him, went to his penthouse suite on the pretext she had a message from Gino, and once there took off her clothes and challenged him with her eyes to say no. He was scared to turn her down. Scared to do it. Either way he was a loser. She was Gino Santangelo’s daughter. It made things mighty difficult.

  Power, she decided, sure was a wonderful feeling! And being fucked properly was even better.

  She had not looked back. If she saw a man she desired, she had him, if he was haveable—and most of them were. Of course she was discreet. It would never do for word to get back to Big Daddy that marriage—instead of stopping her from screwing around—had actually forced her into it.

  “How long have you been out here?” Craven asked.

  “An hour. Why?”

  “I just wondered.” Fussily he arranged his things on the sun bed next to her.

  As soon as he was settled, Lucky got up and dived gracefully into the olympic-size pool. She was well aware that nearly every male in the place second-glanced her. At sixteen she had been a wild daisy, at twenty she was a wild rose. Dark skin, black eyes. Still lean and slender, but her breasts had filled out, giving her body a sudden voluptuous look. She had let her hair grow very long, and it tangled and curled its way below her waist.

  She wore very little makeup. It wasn’t needed. Just black kohl around her eyes, a deep red lipstick, and touches of gold glitter here and there.

  Vigorously she swam the length of the pool, ducking her head beneath the cool water, surfacing for breath only occasionally.

  Again she thought about her life.

  Mr. and Mrs. Craven Richmond lived in a very nice apartment in Washington. She drove a red Ferrari, wedding present from Big Daddy. Craven had a cream Lincoln Continental. He also had two hundred thousand dollars plus four years’ interest in a Swiss bank account. Gino had paid Craven to marry her. Blackmailed Betty and Peter Richmond to allow it. Betty had told her—without revealing the facts—spitefully, bitchily, during the course of a family argument. One day Lucky determined to find out what the blackmail was.

  The fact that Gino had paid someone to marry her was devastating, so awful that at first she refused to believe it. But one day she had flown to New York and confronted her father.

  “So what?” he had asked. “You’re married into one of the best families in the whole friggin’ fifty states. Big deal, so I gave him some money to get started.”

  Get started doing what? Craven had no job. He hung around his father, played tennis with his mother, and Lucky was expected to tag along to all the Richmond happenings. Golf. Horseback riding. Table tennis tournaments. All faithfully chronicled by the popular press. She soon learned that Peter Richmond wouldn’t lift a finger unless there was a photographer around, and then it was all stops out.

  This was not the life she had imagined for herself. She was frustrated in every way. “I want to get a job,” she told Craven. “I can’t just hang out like you do, my brain is turning into a tennis ball.”

  “It’s not a good idea,” said Craven.

  “It’s not a good idea,” said Betty.

  “It’s not a good idea,” said Peter.

  One thing about the Richmonds, they stuck together.

  “Have you thought about getting pregnant, dear?” Betty asked one day.

  Had she thought about it? The very idea gave her nightmares. “I speak four languages, I have an extremely active mind—I don’t want kids yet, Betty. I must get a job or I’ll go crazy!”

  Reluctantly they let her work part time in Peter’s office. After a week she gave it up. Working for Peter alongside his backslappers was worse than doing nothing.

  She filled her days with shopping, reading, lunches with girl friends who were not really friends but acquaintances. She drove her Ferrari for hours up and down the freeway, just for something to do. Fast—the stereo tape blazing good black soul. She indulged in many short sharp affairs, but none of them lasted more than a few days—her choice. Very occasionally she saw her father. He flew into Washington, or she and Craven flew into New York. Always for an event. A dinner. A presentation. They were always surrounded by people. Dario turned up a couple of times. The brother she had once been so close to was now a secretive stranger, and they had nothing to say to each other any more.

  She felt trapped in a life she didn’t want, a life that Gino had forced upon her.

  So why did she stay? She still hadn’t figured out why. She hated her father with a passion. Yet at the same time she desperately wanted to please him.

  Staying married pleased him.

  Fucking around pleased her.

  She hauled herself out of the pool, only to find Craven waving frantically. She took her time strolling casually back to their sun beds. “What’s the matter?” she asked, shaking out her wet hair so that droplets of water went all over him.

  “It’s your father,” he said irritably. “They’re paging you. He’s on the phone.”

  “Yes?” Her heart lifted a little. She hadn’t seen or heard from Gino in months. Was he suddenly missing her?

  Without bothering to wrap a towel around her, she hurried over to one of the glass-covered phone booths. “Yes?” She kept her voice deliberately casual.

  “Lucky? Hi, kid, how you doin’?”

  “Just great. And you?”

  “I got problems—nothin’ that can’t be worked out
.”

  He was telling her about his problems. This was a first.

  There was an awkward silence, then he said, “Listen, kid, I want you to fly into New York.”

  A million questions came into her head. “When?” she asked quickly.

  “Today, tomorrow, you don’t hafta break a neck but it has to be soon.”

  “I’m in the middle of my vacation,” she explained calmly.

  “Your whole life’s a friggin’ vacation!” he exploded.

  “What’s it all about anyway?” she asked impatiently, ignoring his outburst.

  “I don’t want to discuss it on the phone,” he said tightly. “Just get your ass into New York. It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask you.”

  “We’ll get a plane tonight,” she decided.

  “No, don’t bring Craven. Come alone. This is private family business.”

  The thought of flying to New York without Craven delighted her. “O.K.,” she said slowly, still wondering what it was all about. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Get an early plane. We can have dinner together. Dario’s coming in from the coast.”

  Now she was really confused. Dario. Her. Gino. The whole Santangelo family. Was Gino sick? Did he have some dreaded disease and five minutes to live?

  “Are you… all right?” she asked softly.

  “Sure. Couldn’t be better. I’ll see you later, kid. Call Costa when you got your flight number, and there’ll be someone to meet you at the airport.”

  A low buzz told her he had hung up.

  Earlier that day, Dario had received the same call and was just as surprised as his sister.

  On the whole, his father left him alone. “Get yourself a good education and you got the world by the balls,” Gino was fond of saying. Dario took his advice. He stayed at school until he graduated at seventeen; then he persuaded Gino to let him study art at the San Francisco Art Institute.

  At first his father was skeptical. “Art? What kinda education is that?” But at the same time he was proud that his son obviously had artistic talents. He confided in Costa, “I’ll let the kid have fun, do what he wants to do. He can screw around in art school, fuck all the girls he wants, and then when he’s twenty-one I’ll teach him everything I know—that’ll complete his education good. One of these days he’ll take over the Santangelo empire. I don’t want to push him into it before he’s ready.” So Dario was given his freedom.

  With unlimited funds generously supplied by Gino, he rented an apartment in San Francisco and settled down with Eric, who gave up his job and moved from San Diego to be with his protege.

  Dario was quite happy with the relationship. Eric catered to him in every way, and it was good to just sit back and be adored. He didn’t feel abnormal or bad about the way it was; the only guilt he ever felt was when he considered the possibility of his father ever finding out. Unthinkable.

  He and Eric kept very much to themselves. They didn’t join the thriving hippie community, or attend the gay clubs, or get involved with any other people at all. This suited Eric fine. He didn’t want anyone else getting his hands on Dario.

  At the Art Institute, the girls pursued him relentlessly. He simply wasn’t interested. Eric was fulfilling all his needs.

  Time passed quickly. Dario had seen his father only occasionally. One Christmas, then some weeks in the summer when he made a dutiful visit to Las Vegas. A few New York trips. And that was it.

  In Vegas, Gino threw the odd girl in his son’s direction. “This is Jenny, she’s new in town.” “I want you to take out Crissy—she just broke up with her boy friend.”

  Dutifully Dario took them out, even kissed them good night in case they were reporting back to his father. Eric would kill him if he ever knew!

  Kissing girls was no big deal. In fact it did not turn him on one bit. He hated the gooey feel of their lipstick and the cloying smell of powder and paint. The thought of a naked woman was disgusting to him now. All that soft flesh. Huge bosoms. Hidden places. He remembered a naked Marabelle Blue and shuddered.

  “Why do you have to go to New York?” Eric questioned.

  He combed his hair carefully and wondered if he should get it cut before facing his father. “I just do. Family meeting, whatever that means.”

  “What does it mean?” Eric asked peevishly.

  Dario shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll just have to find out.”

  Gino

  1970

  Impatiently Gino waited for his children to arrive. Lucky would be first—she was only a two-hour flight away. Then Dario—he was due in at Kennedy around seven fifteen. What a shame, Gino reflected, that the boy wasn’t the older of the two. Somehow it was more fitting for the male child to be the first. And also, why weren’t their looks reversed? Why couldn’t Lucky be the image of Maria, and Dario dark and masculine? Not that Dario wasn’t masculine. Gino had seen his son in action, chasing the girls in Vegas and obviously having one hell of a time at that art institute he attended in Frisco. To think, a son of his at an art institute! He grinned and wished—as he wished every day of his life—that Maria had lived to see her children grow. What would she have done with Lucky?

  He felt he had made a wise choice marrying her off, even at such a young age. She had every advantage being with the Richmonds. One day Peter Richmond would run for President.

  It had all been so easy. People were suckers to manipulate. To convince the Richmonds to accept Lucky as a daughter-in-law had taken only mild persuasion, money, and the mention of the rather torrid photographs and tapes of Peter with Marabelle Blue that Gino had locked away in his safe.

  Betty Richmond had been furious. She had even presented herself at his door with the hope that one more fuck of that bony body would persuade him to forget the whole idea.

  He had dismissed her as she had dismissed him. Score—even.

  A week later Lucky and Craven were married. Only time would tell if he’d done the right thing. He hadn’t seen that much of her, but when he did she seemed fine. A little tense, perhaps. Why didn’t she have a baby? Then he would know he had done the right thing. He resolved to talk to her, tell her he would like to be a grandpop. After all, time was passing. He wasn’t getting any younger.

  Costa entered the room. He had aged considerably since the death of his beloved Jennifer the previous year. Cancer had taken her mercifully quickly.

  Gino felt so sorry for his friend. No children. No family. Only Leonora still alive, a hopeless alcoholic by all accounts. He didn’t even want to think her name. To remember her filled him with disgust. The way she had treated Maria—her only child. The bitch had not even bothered to come to the funeral, and over all the years she had never once attempted to see Lucky or Dario. Not that he would have allowed it. Never.

  “Red’s gone to the airport,” Costa said. “He’ll have time to bring Lucky here, then go back for Dario.”

  “Good,” Gino replied, running a hand through his unruly mop of hair. Sixty-four. His hair was as thick as ever. His cock could get hard whenever he wanted. Only his stomach let him down. Goddamn ulcers. Drove him mad. Sometimes the pain was so bad he rolled on the floor in agony.

  “Something smells good,” Costa said, sniffing eagerly.

  “You should get yourself a cook, fatten up. There’s nothin’ worse than a scrawny old man.”

  “How about a scrawny old woman?”

  Gino laughed. “You’re right! I take out nothin’ over twenty-nine. Their conversation stinks but their necks look nice!”

  He wished he could get Costa to start going out. When a man lets the hard-on out of his life, something happens. It was happening to Costa. A gray stooped look. Jennifer was a year buried. It was time.

  They made light conversation: Gino at the head of the table, Costa facing him, Lucky to his left, Dario to his right.

  He was certainly proud of his children. They were both very good-looking in highly individual ways. Of course Dario’s hair was much too long, but wasn’t that th
e way of young boys today, the fashion? He couldn’t help saying, “You should get your hair cut, Dario, you look like one of those hippies or somethin’ out of a rock group.”

  “I like it,” Lucky said quickly, rushing to her brother’s defense as she had always done when they were children.

  “You would,” Gino chided. “I don’t like somethin’—you love it. It’s always bin that way.”

  “Has it?” She was genuinely surprised.

  “Sure. Ain’t that right, Costa?”

  Costa nodded.

  Lucky laughed. “I can’t help it if we always have different opinions.”

  She felt good sitting at the table with Gino and Dario. It was nice being with her family. She couldn’t remember the last time they had all sat down together for a meal. At least her father looked well, so it wasn’t his health that had brought them together.

  She thought about Craven’s face when she had told him she was going to New York and that he couldn’t go with her.

  “Why not?” he had whined, the zinc ointment making him look even more ridiculous than usual.

  “Family business,” she had replied airily. “You know how important families are.” A nice zinger right between the balls. His family ruled their life. Bossy Betty and Randy Peter, as she had nicknamed them. If only Peter Richmond would run for President and get it over with. He had no chance, as far as she was concerned—he was no Kennedy. Besides, he had her as a daughter-in-law, and that had to be a major strike against him.

  The roast lamb was delicious. It was followed by the traditional dishes of cassata that Gino liked so much. He ate quickly, spooning the dessert into his mouth in big chunks. It wasn’t as good as the old days—nostalgically he remembered the cassata Fat Larry used to serve; rich, creamy with real bits of fruit—but it wasn’t bad.

  When dessert was finished and coffee served, he left the dining table, opened the door to make sure no one was lurking outside, closed it again, and returned to the head of the table. “I guess you’re wondering why I wanted you both to come,” he said.