“Time for a cocktail,” Alejandro said, gesturing toward the upstairs bar.
“Not for me,” Rafael said, tired of being the watchdog to his idiot half brother. Yes, Pablo could deny it all he wanted, but Rafael had no doubt that they were brothers.
“How come you’re such a tight-ass?” Alejandro mocked. “You act as if you’re an old man.”
“Not old, merely smart,” Rafael replied.
“Smarter than me?” Alejandro sneered. “There is nobody smarter than me.”
Then, throwing his charge card at the startled salesman, he strutted toward the circular bar.
Rafael followed. As usual, he had no choice.
* * *
The music was deafening, the girls plentiful. A few celebrities were scattered here and there, mostly young actors looking to get their rocks off. Alejandro got off on collecting celebrities; they were so easy to please as long as the drugs were plentiful. Naturally, Alejandro made sure that they were. Coke, pills, heroin—if anyone was so inclined. He played on their vices, and had one of his many so-called girlfriends take surreptitious pictures, always useful to lock away for future use.
Tonight he was cozying up to Willow Price, a young actress who covered the waterfront with her sexual activities. This suited Alejandro, for threesomes were his thing.
Willow had never been what one would describe as a girl’s girl. She’d always operated in a world filled with men, most of whom wanted to sleep with her or have her suck them off. Willow exuded a girlish sensuality—she was the extremely pretty girl next door who was ready to do anything that was required to forward her career. She was also famous for her record amount of stays in rehab, several DUIs, and her outrageous public behavior. She was into Alejandro because he paid her bills and bailed her out of jail when she needed him to. In return, she indulged his threesome fantasies, and occasionally invited him to accompany her to a premiere or a fancy Hollywood party.
Alejandro got a big kick out of seeing his photo in the magazines alongside Willow, especially when they described him as an affluent businessman. It upped his profile, made him more appealing to women.
Tonight Willow was in a ready-to-party mood. She’d recently split with her latest agent and gotten her third DUI, and since her last movie, in which she’d starred alongside Billy Melina, nothing worthwhile had come her way. It infuriated her that younger actresses were now getting the roles that should be hers. Jennifer Lawrence, Rooney Mara, Kristin Stewart. Fuck ’em. She was more talented than the three of them put together.
Willow had a plan; she always had a plan. She’d discussed it with her friend and sometime lover Frankie Romano before he’d gotten his dumb ass arrested. Frankie had considered it a fine idea. Her plan was to get Alejandro to put up the money for a movie she could star in. After all, he was always boasting about how much money he had, so how about sliding some of it her way?
Falling out of a slinky dress, sans underwear, she decided to get to work on Alejandro, and with that in mind, she’d hired a porno player to help her out. The porno girl was tanned and big-breasted—the best that silicone had to offer. Her professional name was Bee Bee, and Willow knew from past experience that Bee Bee took direction well.
Alejandro had no clue that Bee Bee was getting paid to do anything he so desired. In his mind she was a female, he was a male, and his masculine lure was impossible to resist.
Willow had decided that Bee Bee should do all the heavy lifting. Willow didn’t mind sucking Alejandro’s cock once in a while, but lately he was into butt-fucking, and that was not her idea of a fun time. He was also into sitting astride her, straddling her tits, and stuffing his member into her mouth while almost suffocating her with his weight.
There were plenty of girls at the party—skanky would-be model/actresses ready to entertain Alejandro in any way he saw fit. Willow’s advantage was that none of them had a name like she did. She was a famous, out-of-control bad girl, and Alejandro was a fame whore.
Guns, coke, and endless women—Alejandro was into it all. He kept a Glock in a drawer next to his bed, and an Uzi in his walk-in closet. Oh yes, he was prepared for anything. One night he’d revealed to Willow that his idol was Al Pacino. He’d raved over the way the actor had portrayed drug dealer Tony Montana in Scarface. Alejandro considered himself a Pacino/Montana clone, minus the death scene at the end of the movie.
After a while, Willow maneuvered Alejandro, herself, and Bee Bee into the master bedroom—a room dominated by an enormous bed and white leather furniture with heavy gold accents. Loud rap music emanated from several speakers.
Alejandro was coked out of his mind, simultaneously roaring with laughter and screaming that he was the man.
“You sure are, baby,” Willow assured him, exposing her breasts and shaking them in his face.
He grabbed her, squeezing her breasts while bending his head to suck greedily on her nipples.
She knew she had great tits, and they were all real too. “We should make a movie,” she whispered in his ear, planting the seed.
“Where’s the camera?” he demanded. “I wanna see a close-up of your pussy.”
“No,” she said, breaking away from him. “I’m talking about a legitimate movie, starring me.”
“An’ me,” said Bee Bee, joining in when she wasn’t supposed to.
“Get undressed,” Willow hissed at her. “And while you’re at it, shut your mouth. I’m paying you to fuck, not talk.”
“A movie, huh?” mumbled Alejandro, warming to the idea.
“Independent,” Willow said, “so we don’t have to answer to any studio assholes.”
Alejandro chuckled.
“We’ll do it my way,” Willow continued.
“Doncha mean our way?” Alejandro said, watching Bee Bee strip.
Hmm, Willow decided. He’s not as out of it as I thought.
“Yeah, baby, our way,” she agreed. “You can be the exec producer. You’ll have your name up there on the big screen for everyone to see. How about that?”
“I like it,” Alejandro said, beckoning Bee Bee to move closer, then tipping a vial of coke onto her big tits and snorting the white powder off her naked skin.
“So,” Willow said, cradling his balls the way she knew he liked. “Do we have something? Should I get a deal memo drawn up?” She squeezed his balls hard. “Are we in business?”
He groaned and let out an anguished, “Yeah, let’s do it.”
Bee Bee leaned over him, smothering his face with her huge breasts. She was a true professional.
Alejandro felt himself coming.
Too soon.
What the fuck. The night was young, and he was just getting started.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The plane ride to L.A. was quick and uneventful. Upon arrival, Lucky bid good-bye to Danny at the airport, picked up her Ferrari, and headed straight to Malibu. Using drivers did not appeal to her. Being behind the wheel of a kick-ass car had always been her thing. Besides, she preferred being in control.
Stopping at Malibu Market, she picked up steaks for Lennie to barbecue, a jar of Texas grilling sauce, and a bottle of tequila. Tonight was to be their night. She’d given the housekeepers a couple of days off, so it would be just her and Lennie. The two of them alone at last.
Thinking about Lennie always brought a smile to her face. He was everything she could ever want in a man. Sexy, wry, charismatic, talented, great in bed, no way a yes-man. In fact, Lennie was the only man who’d ever stood up to her. He was strong and opinionated and they sometimes enjoyed fierce fights. However, the making up was always worth it.
Her thoughts moved on to Venus, and how her friend was possibly ruining her life, not to mention her career. Venus had a habit of becoming the woman she imagined the man she was with expected her to be. During the time she was married to movie star Cooper Turner, she’d glammed it up all the way. Then, while she was married to Billy Melina—who was younger than her—she’d turned into the rock chick of his dr
eams, riding on the back of his Harley, playing Ping-Pong, going bowling with his rowdy group of friends, even camping because Billy was into it. After her divorce from Billy, she’d sampled a few boy toys, finally settling for Brazilian Jorge. With Jorge, Venus had paid all the bills, while Jorge had lived the life. Then along came Hugo Santos, and Venus had fallen prey to his bullshit I-can-make-you-into-a-dramatic-actress spell.
The only consolation was that it wouldn’t last. Venus’s relationships never did.
Lucky sighed. Venus had to be careful; fans had a way of moving on.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, Lennie was already home.
“Here comes my beautiful wife,” he said, greeting her at the door.
“Hey,” she responded. “And I bring food too.”
“I always knew you were perfect.”
“Did you, now?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I always did.”
They entered their Malibu retreat, arms entwined.
* * *
Five minutes later, their lovemaking was fast and furious. No foreplay, no tender kisses, simply a raw urgency that took them both by surprise.
Lucky fell into it with a fervent passion. Nothing with Lennie was ever predictable, which is why they had such a great and exciting marriage.
“You leave me breathless,” she sighed when they were both fully satisfied. “Breathless and extraordinarily happy.”
Lennie grinned. He still had an irresistible grin, and an irresistible everything else.
Tracing her fingers across his taut abs, she murmured, “Whatever happened to tantric? You’ve gone all macho on me.”
“Is my lovely wife complaining?”
“Never.”
“Well, y’know I like to keep you guessing.”
“Really?” she said, her fingers tiptoeing downward.
“If I didn’t, you’d be off runnin’ around like you were when I first met you.”
“You remember, huh?” she said with a soft smile.
“How could I ever forget? There I was, this lowly stand-up comedian working the lounge in your hotel—only I didn’t know it was your hotel—and you invited me up to your suite an’ tried to take advantage of me—”
“Oh, please,” Lucky interrupted. “If I remember clearly, nobody was taking advantage of anyone. All I wanted was to get laid and you didn’t.”
“C’mon, Lucky,” he said with a lazy grin. “You wouldn’t even give me your name.”
“How sad,” she teased. “No name, no hard-on.”
“Then when I wouldn’t do it, you had me fired.”
“I did?” she said innocently.
“Oh yeah, that was a really classy move. Why’d you do that?”
“Because I could,” she said, her fingers still moving downward.
“Jesus, Lucky, you had balls of fire.”
“I still do.”
“Yeah, and if you ever fucked around on me I’d cut ’em off.”
“Technically speaking, Lennie, you’re the one with balls. So exactly who would be doing the cutting?”
“I’m not risking it.”
“You’d better not.”
Her hand reached its destination, and she began slowly caressing him. Naturally, he rose to the occasion; there wasn’t a time when he didn’t.
Once more they made love, this time at a more leisurely pace.
Later, Lennie barbecued steaks out by the pool, while Lucky fixed them strong margaritas. After they finished eating, they sat on loungers facing the ocean.
“This is my favorite kind of evening,” Lennie said. “You and me—no housekeepers, no kids.”
“Mine too,” Lucky agreed.
“I love our kids, only I gotta say that being alone with you is the best.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, sipping her margarita.
“Talking of kids,” he added, “you spoken to Max lately?”
“Not in the last few days. She seems to be having a good time with all her new friends in London.”
“Not too good, I hope. Not like you when you were her age.”
“Oh yeah, eighteen was a really fun time,” Lucky said drily. “There I was, trapped in Washington with Craven Richmond, the dullest, most boring husband in the world, and his desperately ambitious political family. Those were the days.”
“With a dozen lovers on the side, right?”
“Hey, what else was I going to do?” she said, laughing. “Play tennis?”
“Just as well you didn’t. You’d have ripped the ass off any opponent.”
“So eloquent.”
“That’s ’cause I’m a writer.”
“Really?” she said, playing with him. “I thought you were a stand-up comedian.”
“That was way back, babe, when you were sleeping with anything that moved.”
“Oh, and I suppose you weren’t?”
That irresistible grin appeared again. “I had my moments.”
“Yeah, don’t I know it. More girls than hot dinners.”
“That, my crazy beautiful wife, is why neither of us is looking to get out of our marriage. We can truthfully say, ‘Been there, done that.’”
Lucky got up to refill her glass. “I spoke to Gino earlier,” she said. “I’ve persuaded him to come to Vegas next weekend. I want to get him up to speed on my latest project. Can you make it? It would be so great if we were all there together.”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Like I said to Gino, don’t try—do it,” she said, sitting down again.
“We’re in post, which means I might have to stay in L.A. Besides, wouldn’t it be kinda nice for you and Gino to have some alone time?”
“You do know that Gino isn’t getting any younger,” she pointed out. “We have to take advantage of every moment.”
“Trust me, Gino Santangelo will outlive us all,” Lennie assured her with a husky laugh. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere, babe. Gino is a raging fucking bull.”
“That he is,” Lucky agreed, once more thinking about her father and their turbulent history. So much hate. So much love. They’d been reconciled for years now, and she loved him with all her heart, although it hadn’t been an easy journey.
“By the way—in case I haven’t told you lately,” Lennie added, “you make me the happiest man in the world.”
“I like it! More!”
“The woman wants more,” Lennie drawled, shaking his head. “You’re insatiable.”
“I think you already know that.”
“I think I do.”
They smiled at each other, totally content.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Italian photographer was thirtyish and hot, with a cocky attitude and hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. “Ciao,” he said.
Athena had warned Max about Italian men. In fact, everyone had warned her about Italian men, even Lady Harriet, who’d one day revealed that as a young girl she’d lived in Rome and had experienced a procession of Italian lovers, all of them untrustworthy, concerned only with the size and performance of their precious members.
“Mummy!” Athena had exclaimed, feigning shock. “I never knew you were so bloody randy!”
“I experimented plenty in my day,” Lady Harriet had replied, slurping down even more wine. “And you, my dear, have inherited my adventurous spirit.”
So Max was warned. However, Carlo, with his olive skin and sexy eyes, was quite attractive in a bad-boy kind of way, and Max couldn’t help wondering if he would be the one to take her mind off Billy.
It turned out that he wasn’t. He was what Lucky would call an arrogant little prick.
Carlo obviously considered himself the second coming of Mario Testino. He had three assistants, all of whom he treated like crap. Also present were two male representatives from the jeans company, and the usual glam squad of hairstylists, makeup artists, and clothes stylists. Max knew the glam squad through Athena, and they too considered Carlo to be an annoying diva.
&nb
sp; “His cock is bigger than his talent,” the makeup man confided in a low voice. “And that’s not saying much.”
Max giggled. She was standing in front of the camera in low-rise jeans and a crop top, her long dark hair piled on top of her head. She radiated sexy teenage spirit.
“Too much trouble for you to concentrate?” Carlo yelled at her across the studio floor. “You look like a donkey with that stonato smirk on your face.”
What would Athena do? She’d probably tell him to go fuck himself. But Max was nowhere near the dizzying heights of Athena, so she bit down hard on her lower lip and remained silent. These photos had to be good. No, not good—awesome. These photos were her gateway to the big-time.
One of the jeans reps stepped forward and whispered something in Carlo’s ear.
Carlo gave a vigorous nod and shouted instructions to Max. “Top off,” he commanded as if it was no big deal, and if she were Athena, it wouldn’t have been. However, Max had never done topless, nor did she want to.
“Excuse me?” she said, feeling a sudden rush of nervousness.
“Scusi,” he said, mimicking her. “Top off, sticchiu.”
She didn’t understand what sticchiu meant, but she sure as hell knew it wasn’t nice. “My agent never said anything about nudity,” she ventured, standing her ground.
Carlo launched into a stream of Italian. He then grabbed one of his assistants by the arm, a thin girl with a sallow complexion, her hair in braids, and instructed her to translate. The girl was a wreck. But although Carlo had almost twisted her arm off, she still seemed to be in total awe of him.
“Carlo would like you to remove your top and cover your breasts with your hands,” the girl said in halting English. “He will not show nipples. Artistically, the covering-your-breasts shot will work for him.”
“Oh,” Max gulped. She’d seen Athena do the pose a hundred times, so why not? “Okay,” she mumbled unsurely. “As long as it’s not too revealing. I’m like so not into doing nudity.”
The gay stylist hurried forward as Carlo strode around the set, muttering to himself while absentmindedly stroking his manhood as if to reassure himself it was still there. “Let’s go, my beauty,” the stylist murmured. “We will remove your top in privacy.”
The Santangelos Page 6