Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

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  Copyright Page

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  DROP DEAD

  BEAUTIFUL

  For my family, who are a constant source of love and encouragement

  And

  For my friends, whom I often write about, only I change the names to protect the not so innocent!

  PROLOGUE

  The house in Pasadena was grand by anyone’s standards. Large and imposing. An impressive Colonial mansion that reeked of money, nothing flashy.

  Penelope Whitfield-Simmons and her son, Henry, lived in the mansion. Penelope was the widow of the powerful newspaper magnate Logan Whitfield-Simmons, who died at the age of seventy-two from a massive heart attack while out on a fishing trip with his only son. Henry, twenty-two at the time of his father’s death, was now thirty, but he still lived at home, because in Logan’s will, Henry received nothing until the death of his mother, and Penelope—a healthy seventy—had no intention of going anywhere.

  Henry had no drive, no ambition. When he was younger he’d decided he wanted to be an actor. “Acting is for pansies,” his father had roared. “Your place is in the newspaper business with me.”

  Henry had appealed to his mother. “Listen to your father,” Penelope had said. “Everyone knows that people in the film business are all drug addicts, sexual deviants, and perverts. Not our kind, dear.”

  Ha! Henry had thought. As if she would know.

  Behind their backs he tried his best. He’d secretly taken acting classes and found himself an agent.

  One day a fellow student in his acting class mentioned that Alex Woods, the renowned Oscar-winning director, was auditioning young actors for the lead role opposite the very famous Venus Maria in his new movie, Seduction.

  Henry was excited. He set about finding out everything he could regarding the upcoming film, even going so far as to bribe his agent’s assistant to get him a copy of the script. He studied the script religiously, practicing his dialogue and moves in front of a mirror. When he considered himself fully prepared, he instructed his agent to get him in for an audition.

  His agent had looked at him as if he were a mental case, and informed him that getting an audition for an Alex Woods film was virtually impossible for an actor who had no prior experience.

  Henry came from a world of extreme wealth and privilege. At an early age he’d learned from his father that in their world nothing was impossible.

  With a great deal of manipulating he’d arranged to get himself in for an audition.

  The day he arrived for his appointment there were fifteen other young actors sitting around in the cramped waiting room. Henry proceeded to stare them down. They might be good, but Henry was confident that he was better.

  The Asian girl behind the desk handed him sides.

  Sitting, fidgeting, waiting, he’d imagined his future. He would land the role, tell his parents, and there would be nothing they could do about it.

  He, Henry Whitfield-Simmons, was about to become a famous movie star, with or without their approval.

  It never happened.

  And why not?

  Because of one woman.

  Her name was Lucky Santangelo.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Drop Dead Beautiful. The three little words were scrawled on the Cartier card Lucky Santangelo had just opened. Hand-delivered, the note had been brought up to the house in Bel Air by Philippe, her houseman, who’d discovered it in the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

  Drop Dead Beautiful. No signature, no return address.

  Was it an invitation to an upcoming event too clever for its own good?

  Whatever. One quick glance at the card, and Lucky tossed it in the trash.

  Lucky Santangelo. A dangerously seductive woman with blacker-than-night eyes, full sensuous lips, a tangle of long jet-black hair, deep olive skin, and a lithe body. Wherever she went, Lucky still brought a room to a standstill, for not only was she wildly beautiful, she was also a powerhouse—a woman to be reckoned with, a force of nature. Street-smart and forever savvy—Lucky Santangelo had it all.

  In her past, she’d built hotels in Vegas, owned a major movie studio, and been married three times. She’d also survived much heartache. Her mother, Maria, had been murdered when she was five years old. Her brother, Dario, was shot to death and tossed from a moving car. Then finally her fiancé, Marco, was gunned down in the parking lot of her Vegas hotel.

  Eventually Lucky had found out that the man who’d ordered the brutal killings was her godfather, Enzio Bonnatti, a man she had always respected and trusted.

  The information devastated her. Filled with vengeance, she’d lured Enzio into a carefully planned trap at his home, and shot him dead with his own gun, claiming that he’d tried to rape her. It was deemed a clear-cut case of self-defense.

  Self-defense. Sure. She’d made it look like Bonnatti had been about to rape her, and the D.A. had bought it all the way. No surprise there. Her father, Gino, had major connections.

  The real truth was that she’d shot the son of a bitch because he’d deserved to die, and she’d never regretted doing so. Justice had taken place. Santangelo justice.

  Don’t fuck with a Santangelo—the family motto.

  Grabbing her purse from a shelf in the luxurious dressing room, Lucky headed for the door. Everything was large and luxurious in Bel-Air—the privileged enclave of the very rich and famous. The house she and her husband, Lennie, were living in was a short-term rental. Recent storms had wreaked havoc on their home in Malibu and they’d been forced to leave while repairs were being made.

  The beach was more her style. Bel-Air was too cut off from real life with its winding hillside streets and enormous mansions hidden behind vast gates and high walls of impenetrable greenery. People existed as if they were living under siege, surrounded by multiple security guards and vicious attack dogs. That way of living was not for her. She enjoyed feeling unprotected and free, which was one of the reasons she’d opted out of running Panther Studios several years earlier.

  Being the head of a Hollywood studio was no nine-to-five job. She’d found herself working seventeen-hour days, leaving no time for family and friends. One morning she’d woken up and thought, That’s it, I’m out. She’d had enough of dealing with ego-inflated stars, nervous-for-their-jobs executives, fast-talking agents, neurotic directors, fat-assed producers, and anyone else who thought they could make it in the movie business—which was most people in L.A.

  So she’d quit running Panther, and after producing one movie, Seduction, starring Venus Maria, and her new discovery, Billy Melina, she’d sold the studio and gotten out of the film business altogether.

  Lennie was in the movie industry. That was enough for one family.

  Besides, Lucky had other plans. She was getting back into the hotel business in Vegas—the place where it had all begun for her. Several years ago she’d put together a syndicate of interesting and colorful investors to develop a huge multibillion-dollar complex called the Keys. She’d been wor
king with architects and planners for the last five years, and in less than a month they were about to celebrate the grand opening. Since the hotel project was her baby, she was beyond excited.

  “Mom!” Max burst into the dressing room without knocking. Max, her sixteen-year-old wild child. Tall and coltlike with smooth olive skin, green eyes, an unruly tangle of black curls, and a killer bod, Max was a showstopper. She was also a rebel, playing truant from school on a regular basis.

  “Here’s the thing,” Max announced, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “There’s no way I can go to Grandpa’s party.”

  “Excuse me?” Lucky questioned, attempting to remain calm.

  “Y’see, there’s this big blowout for one of Cookie’s best friends up in Big Bear,” Max blurted, speaking too fast. “A whole crowd of us wanna go, so like I can’t let Cookie down.”

  “You can’t, huh?” Lucky said coolly.

  “Nope,” Max answered, tugging on a stray curl. “Cookie’s my best friend an’ this is like essential.”

  “You are not missing Gino’s birthday,” Lucky said firmly. “No way.”

  Max stared balefully at her mom. “Huh?”

  “You heard me,” Lucky said, heading for the door.

  “I can’t believe you’d be this mean,” Max complained, trailing behind her.

  “Mean?” Lucky sighed. This was major déjà vu. It reminded her of all the times she and Gino had gone head to head, and there were too many to remember.

  “Why do I have to stay for Gino’s stupid party?” Max demanded. “It’s not as if he’ll miss me.”

  “Of course he’ll miss you,” Lucky insisted, hurrying down the stairs.

  “He’ll like so not,” Max grumbled, right behind her.

  Lucky turned around, shooting her daughter a warning look. “You’re getting on my bad side, so stop it.”

  “But—”

  “No, Max,” Lucky said, walking out the front door. “I’m not interested, don’t want to hear it.”

  And with those words she got into her red Ferrari and roared off down the driveway.

  “Crap!” Max shrieked as her mother’s car vanished into the distance.

  “Whassup?” questioned her younger brother, Gino Junior, rounding the corner from the tennis court.

  “Mom sucks!” Max complained, ignoring Gino Junior’s two leering friends, both of whom she knew had a total crush on her.

  “What she do now?” Gino asked. He was only fifteen, but he was already six feet tall and built like a football player.

  “She won’t let me get out of Grandpa’s lame party. That’s so pathetic.”

  Ignoring her, Gino Junior raced into the house, followed by his two friends, who couldn’t take their eyes off her.

  “Horny little pricks,” she muttered under her breath. “Go jerk off someplace else. Like Siberia.”

  * * *

  Lucky drove like a race car driver, skillfully weaving in and out of traffic. She turned the CD player on full volume—Usher blasting.

  Lately Max’s behavior was becoming quite a challenge. Everything seemed to turn into an argument. Lucky sighed. It wasn’t easy being a parent, especially when in your head you were hardly any older than your own child.

  A frosted and Botoxed blonde in a shiny new Mercedes cut in front of her, causing her to hit the brakes. “Shit, lady!” Lucky yelled. “Whyn’t you learn to fuckin’ drive?”

  Not that anyone could hear her, but shouting at other drivers eased the tension, although if Lennie happened to be in the car, it made him crazy. “One of these days someone’s gonna get out their car and shoot your ass,” he was always warning her.

  “Yeah, sure,” she would reply. “I dare them to.”

  At which point Lennie would shake his head. In his eyes there was no taming Lucky Santangelo. She walked her own path, and that’s exactly the way he liked her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Movie star Billy Melina was over six feet tall, tanned, with shaggy, bleached-by-the-sun hair, and a body straight out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. At twenty-eight Billy was in spectacular shape, with sharply defined abs that rippled as the starstruck young girl kneeling in front of him bobbed her head up and down, servicing him with sticky lips and a busy tongue.

  “Suck it!” Billy commanded, pressing his hands down on top of her head. “Suck it, suck it hard!”

  She was doing the best she could. What more did he expect?

  “Aarghh…” He let out a long, agonized groan. “That’s it, sweet thing, that’s it! I’m coming … I’m coming.”

  The girl attempted to pull away.

  “No! No!” Billy yelled, pressing down even harder on the back of her head. “Swallow it, suck it all down.” He groaned again, then mumbled, “Go, baby. Go. That’s it! Yeeeah!”

  For a moment there was silence while the girl tried to decide if it was now okay to release his massive dick from the confines of her mouth.

  He decided for her, pulling away with a sudden jerk, immediately stuffing himself back into his tight white Calvins and pulling up his jeans.

  They were standing next to the pool in Billy’s Hollywood Hills house—a house that the Realtor had assured him had once been rented by Charlie Sheen. A house that had cost him three million dollars, and who the fuck had ever thought he would be able to afford to buy such a house?

  Certainly not his old man, Ed, who’d laughed in his face when Billy had informed him, eight years ago, that he was off to Hollywood to become a famous actor. Certainly not his alcoholic stepmother, Millie, whose parting words had been, “Good riddance, Billy boy. Doncha bother comin’ back anytime soon.”

  He’d shown them, hadn’t he? Oh yeah, he’d certainly shown them. He was Billy Melina. Hotshot twenty-something movie star. Yeah—a freakin’ movie star. He was on a very exclusive list of young actors who had the clout to open a movie. DiCaprio, Depp, Pitt—although Brad wasn’t so young anymore. And then there was Billy Melina.

  Yeah! Get off on that, old Ed and Millie pissface.

  The girl, clad in denim cut-offs and a skimpy yellow tank, got off her knees and stood up. “Was that okay?” she asked matter-of-factly, as if she’d just served him an omelette.

  “Sweet,” he replied, wondering how fast he could get rid of her.

  Earlier in the day he’d picked her up at Tower Records on Sunset. When the girl had spotted him, she’d sidled over and requested his autograph. He’d noticed her nipples, pushing to escape her barely-there tank top. Then he’d noticed her legs, long and tanned. Her face was pretty—nothing special, but he was feeling major horny, and since his call to the set was not until three that afternoon, he’d invited her up to his house for lunch and a fast blow job. Not that he’d actually mentioned that a blow job was part of the deal—but they’d both known what would happen.

  Quivering with excitement, she’d jumped in her truck and followed his sleek Maserati up the winding streets to his house, barely keeping up in her beat-up old truck with a broken taillight—a truck similar to the one he’d driven to Hollywood eight years earlier with two hundred bucks in his pocket and no prospects.

  “Hey,” he suggested as they stood beside the pool. “How about I give you an autographed picture so you can tell your friends you met me?”

  “That’d be cool,” she said, acting shy—as if his cock hadn’t been in her mouth minutes before.

  “Wait here,” he instructed sternly. “I’ll be right back.”

  When Billy had first arrived in Hollywood, he’d called women “ma’am,” and been full of respect and good manners. Stardom had gotten him over that particular hump, although he still had a chivalrous streak.

  He darted into his house through sliding glass doors, feeling ever so slightly guilty on account of the fact that he had a girlfriend—a gorgeous, famous movie star thirteen years his senior—and if she ever found out that he wasn’t exactly Joe-faithful, she’d be well and truly pissed. But hey, a blow job wasn’t cheating—ever
yone knew that. Jeez—President Clinton had declared it wasn’t sex on national TV. How could anyone argue with that?

  Ramona, his Hispanic housekeeper, was singing to herself in the kitchen, quite oblivious to the goings-on out by the pool. Kev, his assistant/best friend from the old days, was on the loose somewhere, running errands or picking up girls. He’d certainly get off on this one.

  Billy rifled through the stuff on the coffee table in his den and located a stack of glossy eight-by-tens mixed up with unopened bills, pornographic fan mail, a half-smoked joint, well-thumbed car magazines, and an empty candy box. He grabbed a pen, hurriedly scrawled his signature on the photo, and raced back outside, eager to get her off the premises.

  The young girl had divested herself of her cut-offs and tank, and was swimming bare-assed naked in his pool.

  Shit! What was he supposed to do now?

  “Hey,” he said, chewing on his thumbnail.

  “Didn’t think you’d mind,” she responded nonchalantly.

  Well, I do, he thought sourly.

  “Uh … okay,” he said, still chewing. “But I gotta take off any minute, so you’re gonna hafta haul your hot little ass outta there.”

  “How about you getting in?” she suggested, becoming bolder by the minute. “It’s all warm an’ wet, you won’t be disappointed.”

  She flipped onto her back, floating in his azure pool, her small nipples erect and disturbingly tempting.

  He contemplated this juicy prize, there for the taking. She had a flat stomach, a huge bush of wiry pubic hair—which he found quite sexy because shaved pussy was all the rage in Hollywood—and those long, sexy legs.

  Familiar stirrings down below, even though only moments before he’d experienced an extremely satisfactory orgasm.

  What the hell, he’d nail her in the pool, then hustle her out of there before she knew it.

  After all, what Venus didn’t know …

  * * *

  “Where’s Billy?” Alex Woods demanded of Maggie, his personal assistant, a tall woman of Native American descent with long black hair scraped back into a ponytail and strong, almost manly features.