Long ago and far away, Nellie Fortuna had been a beautiful eighteen-year-old movie starlet living in a Hollywood mansion with a withered old producer – who happened to be a millionaire. Way back in the 1930s, millionaires meant something, whereas today you had to be a billionaire to be relevant. Anyway, that’s what Nellie said – she was very talkative and quite a character.
Carolyn tried to stop by at least once every couple of days to make sure the old dear was still alive, and to feed her rather mangy cat, Gable. Apparently, back when Nellie was at the peak of her career, she’d been the lover of many silver-screen icons, including Clark Gable – whose faded picture sat proudly in a silver Art Deco photo-frame on her mantelpiece. The photo was inscribed To Dear Nellie, Love from Clark.
It could have been a fan photo, or it could have been the real thing.
Nellie assured Carolyn it was the real thing.
“Every tom-cat I ever owned I named Gable,” Nellie would often say. And then she’d smile and become all dreamy-eyed. “He was quite the man . . . I’ll never forget that one.”
When she had the time Carolyn enjoyed listening to Nellie’s stories of old Hollywood. They were filled with all the sparkle and glamour of yesteryear, and Nellie spun her tales with such relish.
“These gals today, they all look the same,” Nellie would grumble. “And their outfits! Downright disgusting! Now in my day . . .”
With Gregory on her mind, Carolyn knocked on Nellie’s door and was relieved – as she always was – to find the old lady alive and well, sitting in front of her TV watching the E! Channel, her favorite.
“Just checking on you,” Carolyn called out. “Can’t stay.”
“Hello, dear, you look so pretty today,” Nellie said, as always alert and astute. “You’ve got quite a gleam in your eye. Could we have a new boyfriend?”
Carolyn couldn’t stop smiling. “Well, not exactly new,” she said softly. “More like, I don’t know . . . committed.”
Gable the cat padded over and began languorously rubbing himself against her leg. She bent down to stroke him and he purred loudly.
“I think I know,” Nellie said, nodding wisely. “It’s that nice young man, your boyfriend – what’s his name? Ah yes, Matt. He’s asked you to marry him, hasn’t he?”
“No,” Carolyn said, shaking her head. “Matt’s history.”
“There is someone though, isn’t there?” Nellie persisted, continuing to probe. “Who is he?”
Carolyn wished she could tell her. Wished that she could sing it from the rooftops. “I’m pregnant with Gregory Stoneman’s baby! I’m pregnant pregnant pregnant!”
“Just an old friend,” she said, keeping it vague.
“Ah, old friends,” Nellie mused. “I had plenty of those. Old co-stars. Old lovers. Old married men who couldn’t keep it in their trousers. Ah yes, old friends . . .”
“Have you fed Gable?” Carolyn asked, quickly changing the subject. Nellie loved to ramble on about her many affairs, and today Carolyn wasn’t in the mood to listen.
“Yes, dear, all done,” Nellie said. “But thanks for dropping by anyway – you know how much I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” Carolyn said, making a quick exit. On her way out she decided it would be a nice gesture to invite Nellie Fortuna to their wedding.
Senator Gregory Stoneman
&
Ms. Carolyn Henderson
Invite you to witness their joining in matrimony . . .
Yes! Yes! Yes!
* * *
“No!” Gregory said sharply as he and Evelyn were in the car on their way home. “I will not visit some rat-infested center filled with gang-bangers because you think it’s a good idea.”
Evelyn remained calm as she always did. “Gregory, dear,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, “visiting Ramirez at his center will enhance your reputation. The voters will appreciate such a goodwill gesture, they always do. Have your little assistant alert the press. It’s an excellent photo opportunity.”
Why did she always refer to Carolyn as his “little” assistant? Carolyn was at least five foot eight, hardly little. It was Evelyn’s way of putting her down. Not that she suspected anything, but Evelyn was less than flattering about any other female. At a White House dinner party he’d been seated next to Gwyneth Paltrow, and later Evelyn had called her a skinny little nothing. Note the use of the word “little.” It was Evelyn’s ultimate put-down. What she really meant was that these people were less than her – small and unimportant.
Evelyn was a snob. She’d only married him because politically he was destined to go places, especially with Evelyn and her powerful family behind him.
Had she ever loved him?
Probably not.
But they had two fine, healthy children, and his career was progressing in the right direction and generally life was on track.
But now “little” Carolyn Henderson was determined to screw everything up. And what was he supposed to do about that?
One thing was patently clear – he had to do something – and fast.
Chapter Twelve
Bobby
Back in their hotel suite, M.J. ran around packing up their overnight bags while Bobby had Frankie paged. He’d tried reaching him on his cell phone, but to no avail; he’d also attempted to contact Annabelle so that he could alert her that they were on their way back to the city. She didn’t answer her phone either.
By this time M.J. had switched on the TV and they’d gotten the full gruesome story of Gemma Summer’s murder.
“I can’t believe we didn’t hear about it earlier,” Bobby said, perplexed. “I feel so bad for Annabelle – she must be frantic.”
“You think it’s possible her old man did it?” M.J. asked. “He always scared the crap outta me.”
“He might be movie-star dumb – but not dumb enough to shoot her in their own house,” Bobby mused. “Like who would do that?”
“Yeah,” M.J. ruminated. “Dumb, or maybe he’s so arrogant he thinks he can get away with it.”
“The media’s gonna get off on this one,” Bobby said. “It’s their dream scenario. Two movie stars and a murder.”
Should he call Lucky? He seemed to remember that when she’d owned Panther Studios, Ralph Maestro and Gemma Summer had both appeared in movies her studio had produced. She must’ve known Gemma, maybe even been friends with her.
At that moment, Frankie burst into the suite looking disheveled. “You had me paged?” he questioned, long hair flopping in his eyes. “What the fuck is that about? I was all set to make a killing at the crap table.”
“I guess you haven’t heard the news,” Bobby said, his tone somber.
“What news?” Frankie questioned, thinking, Oh, shit. They’ve found out. Goodbye, weekend of freedom with the guys. Too fuckin’ bad.
“Annabelle’s mother’s been shot,” Bobby said flatly. “We just heard about it.”
“Jeez!” Frankie said, striving to put a shocked and surprised expression on his face. “What the fuck happened? When? How? Is she dead?”
“Yes, she’s dead all right,” Bobby said. “Take a look at the TV. You should call Annabelle right away.”
“Yeah, man,” M.J. said, joining in. “We gotta get your ass back to New York.”
“You know Annabelle hardly ever carries a phone,” Frankie said, pissed that this definitely meant a fast exit.
“Then try your apartment,” Bobby said. “I bet she’s there.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Frankie said, making a show of moving toward the TV and pretending to catch the news for the first time.
“There’s a buzz goin’ around that her old man could’ve done it,” M.J. interjected. “The whole scene is way brutal. Whaddya think?”
“Never met her parents,” Frankie said. “An’ believe me – Annabelle wasn’t close to them. They hardly ever spoke.”
“You need to be with her,” Bobby said. “We’re packed up and ready to go, so I suggest we hit the
road.”
“Sure,” Frankie said, albeit reluctantly.
Bye bye, rendezvous with the sexy waitress from Morton’s. Too bad. He could have fucked her, then recruited her.
* * *
A few hours later, Bobby pulled his BMW up outside the building where Frankie and Annabelle resided.
Frankie took his time getting out of the car. It was late, past midnight, and the last thing he felt like doing was listening to Annabelle bitch about her parents. He knew that’s exactly what she’d do. Bitching about Mommy and Daddy was one of her favorite rants. It was always about how self-absorbed they were, and how they’d never taken any notice of her when she was growing up. Usually he told her to quit complaining – but tonight the circumstances were different, and with the tragedy and all, he would be forced to sit and listen for hours. It was sympathetic boyfriend time, of that he was sure.
“You want us to come up with you?” Bobby asked, not really meaning it, but making the effort all the same.
“Yeah, man, maybe we should,” M.J. said, equally halfhearted. They both knew what a drama queen Annabelle could be, and tonight she’d be out-of-control, probably hysterical.
Frankie decided it wasn’t necessary. “I can take care of her.”
“Well . . .” Bobby said. “Be sure to give her our love, and tell her how sorry we are. We’ll check in with you first thing.”
“Got it,” Frankie said, finally moving away from the car.
Once Frankie had vanished into the building, Bobby said, “Maybe we should stop by the club, surprise everyone.”
“Right,” M.J. agreed. “I wouldn’t mind checkin’ on how many waiters we got runnin’ out the back with a shitload of steaks stuffed down their pants.”
M.J. had a thing about the staff stealing. If he had his way he’d install hidden cameras everywhere, from the kitchen to the workers’ restroom.
Bobby’s attitude was more laid back; he’d learned from Lucky that in the hotel and club business you had to make allowances. It was a fact of life that the barmen would replace Grey Goose Vodka for a cheaper brand, the waiters would steal, and the kitchen workers would take home whatever they could. As long as the stealing was not excessive, it was better to live with it and not stress out.
Bobby wondered if Zeena would be in the club, surrounded by her usual group of sycophants.
He hoped she was, then he immediately hoped she wasn’t.
Dammit, the crush he had on her was ridiculous. She might be a famous, talented superstar – but she treated him as if he didn’t exist, and he wasn’t used to being ignored.
He was, after all, a Stanislopoulos, and his mother was Lucky Santangelo. He deserved respect. And he planned on getting it.
* * *
“Another Bellini,” Zeena ordered in her slightly accented, deep-down husky voice.
The toy boy on her left jumped to attention. He was a Peruvian model, all of nineteen, and he was Zeena’s latest plaything. She paraded him around like a trophy, and the boy was quite beautiful with his sleepy bedroom eyes, pouty lips and flushed cheeks.
Zeena called him Puppy. She called all of them Puppy; she came up with a new one every month.
Out of the corner of her exotically made-up eyes she noticed Bobby Stanislopoulos Santangelo enter the club.
So good-looking. So trying hard to play it cool. So longing to get into her pants.
She wondered how surprised he’d be to discover that twenty-five years ago when she was a mere fifteen, his father, the great Dimitri, had deflowered her on his magnificent yacht in the South of France.
A smile played around her scarlet lips. Ah . . . Dimitri . . . What a man, what a lover . . .
Like father, like son?
Should she take the time to find out?
Perhaps. It might amuse her. Then again it might not.
Bobby was gradually approaching her table. He was late tonight – usually he was around much earlier. Watching him, she had to admit that he had a certain style, although style wasn’t everything. Seasoning was preferable. If they weren’t nineteen, then Zeena liked them to be older and extraordinarily powerful. Extreme youth and excessive power – in Zeena’s world those were her two most potent aphrodisiacs.
She continued to observe as Bobby slowly made his way over, stopping at each table. She watched as every female in the club clung onto his arm, trying to persuade him to sit down at their table, saw how he extracted himself with a polite shake of his head and a few kind words.
Finally he presented himself at her table.
“Zeena,” he said, playing the perfect host. “Nice to see you. Anything you need? Anything I can get you?”
“If Zeena needs anything, Bobby,” she drawled, toying with the back of Puppy’s long hair, “Zeena will ask a waiter.”
Bobby nodded. At least she remembered his name tonight, which wasn’t always the case.
“Yeah. Sure,” he said. “But I’d like to send over a bottle of Cristal for you and your party.”
“Only one bottle, Bobby?” she said, with a sly tilt of her head.
Christ! She reminded him so much of Serenity, even though she was at least twenty years older. She had the same pissy attitude.
“Or two,” he said, determined to stand up to her.
Puppy smirked.
Yeah, Bobby thought, keep on smirking, dude, you’ll soon be last month’s model.
Zeena gave him a very direct challenging stare before flipping back her sheet of glossy black hair which fell below her waist. “Five bottles, Bobby,” she said, indicating the group of hangers-on who surrounded her. “Zeena’s friends are thirsty.”
Bobby kept his cool, trying not to think about how spectacular she looked tonight in some kind of chocolate-brown spidery dress that barely covered her breasts. He could see her nipples. Yes, he could definitely see her nipples. “Two bottles on the house,” he said evenly. “The rest I’m afraid we’ll have to charge you for.”
She arched a painted eyebrow. “You can’t possibly be serious?”
He stood his ground. He might be suffering from some kind of insane crush, but business was business. “House rules,” he said pleasantly.
“Ah, Bobby,” she sighed. “Are you aware that Zeena can go anywhere in the world and get everything for free?”
“Lucky you,” he said, testing her.
Would she get up and leave? Or would she stay? What did he want her to do?
He honestly didn’t know.
“Yes,” she murmured with a sarcastic twist. “Zeena is extraordinarily lucky.” A long beat. “How about you, Bobby? Are you lucky?”
This was the longest exchange of words they’d ever had, and since it was obvious she was staying, he thought about making his move, even though she still had one hand caressing the back of Puppy’s neck.
Puppy was glaring at him – in spite of the glare, he was giving off quite a gay vibe. What was that about?
“I . . . uh . . . like to think a person makes their own luck,” Bobby said, clearing his throat.
“Keep on thinking that way,” Zeena replied. “Naïveté is such a special quality.”
And without further ado, she pulled Puppy’s face toward hers and indulged in a long tongues-down-each-other’s-throat intimate kiss.
Bobby backed away from the table. Screw Zeena and her full entourage of hangers-on. She was playing with him, and he didn’t like it.
Or was that exactly what he did like?
Chapter Thirteen
Annabelle
“Wake up, babe,” Frankie crooned. “C’mon, sweetie, open up those sexy eyes.”
Annabelle rolled over in bed. Someone was shaking her shoulder, someone was pulling her away from the most delightful dream she’d ever experienced. In her dream she was lying on a bed in a luxurious hotel room overlooking the ocean. With her were Chace Crawford and Brad Pitt. Chace was busily kissing her neck, while Brad was patiently awaiting his turn – but Brad was beginning to get antsy . . . he sta
rted roughly shaking her shoulder, and . . .
“Oh my God!” Annabelle exclaimed, awaking with a start and seeing Frankie standing over her. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Atlantic City.”
“I came back as soon as I heard,” he lied, sitting down on the side of the bed. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you go through this alone, did you?”
Annabelle rubbed her eyes, reluctant to leave her dream, but happy that Frankie was concerned enough about her degrading experience with Sharif Rani’s son to forgo his weekend with the boys and race to her side. “Frankie,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek with her fingers. “It was so awful . . .”
“I know, baby,” he said soothingly. “It’s a terrible thing, but let’s be honest about this – it wasn’t as if you were close.”
“Close!” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “Close! I was in the same room, goddamn it. How much closer could I get?”
“Calm down,” Frankie said, realizing that she was in shock and had no idea what she was saying.
“What time is it?” Annabelle demanded, glaring at him. “’Cause whatever time it is, I want you to get on the phone to that sonofabitch and ream him a new asshole. Did I tell you he hung up on me? He actually clicked off his phone. Can you believe it?”
So . . . Ralph Maestro had hung up on his own daughter. Maybe Ralph had shot his wife, and was now filled with guilt. After all, they were Hollywood people – who knew what kind of brutal acts they were capable of.
Frankie’s mind went into overdrive. If Ralph Maestro had murdered his wife, was convicted and eventually sent to jail – who would inherit everything?
As their only child, Annabelle – of course. This whole murder thing could end up having a silver lining.
Frankie immediately imagined himself living in L.A., residing in a mansion, throwing wild parties by the pool and mixing with big-time superstars. Movies, sports, the music biz – he’d get to know them all.
It bugged him that whenever he’d suggested taking a trip to L.A., Annabelle had always shut him down. “I don’t ever want to go there again,” she’d informed him many times. “Living in L.A. were the unhappiest days of my life.”
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