Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  On Armand’s twenty-first birthday, the king summoned him to Akramshar for a special visit. Armand went—reluctantly, for surely once a year was enough. However, it turned out to be a memorable trip, because the king’s closest adviser informed Armand that in the future the king might—from time to time—need him to take care of various business transactions in America.

  Armand, eager to please his father, agreed. And as a twenty-first birthday gift, the king presented him with a check for a million dollars, money he immediately put to good use. On Sidney’s advice, he invested in a parcel of derelict buildings in Queens, which a year later he turned into several apartment complexes, eventually selling them and tripling his initial investment.

  After that there was no stopping him. He formed Jordan Developments and began buying up properties, renovating them, and selling them for a large profit. He was also taking care of business for his father, who needed large sums of money legitimized. Apart from Jordan Developments, he formed several subsidiary companies, including an import/export business that he had nothing to do with except in name. By the time he reached the age of thirty, he was acquiring hotels and apartment houses up and down the East Coast.

  On his yearly visit to Akramshar, his father looked on him kindly and beamed with pride. “You are the son I can be proud of,” the king boasted. “You are smart, and clever, and trustworthy. You are the son who one day should be inheriting my kingdom.”

  These words did not sit well with his half brothers, who now regarded him with suspicion and, even more, hatred.

  But one thing puzzled the king. “Why have you never married?” he demanded. “At your age it is tradition that a man should have many wives and children.”

  Armand shrugged. To him, a relationship was a distraction he didn’t need. His sexual desires were fully met by a series of call girls who serviced his every whim whenever he picked up the phone and summoned them. Women were inferior human beings, something his father had taught him at a very early age. “Females are merely vessels to be used for gratifying one’s sexual urges and bearing children,” the king had informed him. “Never trust them. And never give them your heart.”

  His father was right. Women would do anything for money—absolutely anything. And they were stupid creatures too.

  A year after his father questioned his marital status, he’d arrived in Akramshar for the usual birthday celebrations, and the king had immediately whisked him off to one of his private palaces. Once there, the king had announced that Armand’s birthday gift to him would be to marry the daughter of a close family friend with whom the king conducted business. “You’ll have no responsibilities,” the king had assured him. “Your wife will stay here and, God willing, bear your offspring. This is my desire for you, my dear son. This is my gift.”

  The girl was fifteen and a beauty. Her name was Soraya.

  Later that day there was a lavish wedding ceremony, and that night Armand deflowered the innocent Soraya. She was trembling and scared, which didn’t faze him because he had no intention of going against his father’s wishes. Her nervousness was not his problem. She was there to do his bidding, and that was that. He rode her hard, ignoring her startled cries of pain. She was merely a vessel for him to fill, and that was the extent of her usefulness.

  A week after his wedding ceremony he flew back to America.

  Upon returning to Akramshar one year later, he was surprised to discover that he had a son. Eleven years later he had fathered three more children, all girls, which didn’t particularly please him, but it made the king happy.

  In his mind he regarded Soraya and her brood as his fantasy family. They lived in a place called Akramshar. A place where women were docile and obedient and did as they were told. A place where men ruled.

  He lived in a Park Avenue penthouse in New York, where money was his aphrodisiac and women were his paid playthings. The two worlds only came together in September, when the king celebrated his birthday. And that was as it should be.

  Now Armand was forty-two and becoming restless. He’d conquered the East Coast, and he desired more. His latest plans were to cement a firm position in Las Vegas, a city he’d spent some time in. He was an avid gambler, and the call girls in Vegas were raunchy and used to fulfilling any request, however decadent. Besides, he had family ties in Vegas. His mother had danced at Caesars Palace, and the king had spotted her there and whisked her back to Akramshar. Family ties had to mean something.

  His people had done a financial analysis of most of the big hotels. While Steve Wynn’s empire was intriguing and lucrative, and the Palms, the Four Seasons, and the Harrah’s hotel groups were a possibility, the hotel complex he’d finally decided he had to have was The Keys.

  Yes, The Keys was perfect. A magnificent structure built to extremely high standards less than two years previously. Not Vegas flashy, but incredibly luxurious and classy. A stunning casino. World-class restaurants and stores. Exquisite gardens, and park-like grounds. A magnificent apartment complex. Multiple swimming pools. Two spas. A man-made lake. A lush golf course. And then there was the hotel itself.

  The Keys was it for Armand.

  He wanted it, and therefore he would have it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time she drove her distinctive red Ferrari down Pico and along P.C.H. to Malibu, Lucky had forgotten about Venus and her man-related issues. Her mind was more focused on Max and her imminent departure. Lucky was wise enough to realize that there was no holding her smart, gorgeous, green-eyed daughter back. Max was going out on her own whether Lucky and Lennie liked it or not. And the truth was, Lucky didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do. As everyone was quick to point out, she herself had been running wild at sixteen. After she ditched her strict Swiss boarding school and took off to the South of France, Gino had tracked her down and hurriedly married her off to the irritating and boring Craven Richmond—Senator Peter Richmond’s son. Craven was a weak loser whom she hadn’t loved, and even worse, had no respect for. But she’d refused to be trapped. She’d bided her time, and when Gino left the country on a tax exile, she’d broken all ties with the Richmond family and swiftly moved in to take over Gino’s lucrative hotel business. She’d succeeded, gotten a divorce, and never looked back.

  Now Max was ready to fly, but did her only daughter possess the street smarts to survive all the sharks who’d be circling such a major catch? And if Max chose to move to New York, how was Lucky supposed to protect her?

  “You’re not,” Lennie had informed her, always the voice of reason. “You gotta let Max go. She’s ready to make her own mistakes and learn from them.”

  Even Gino agreed. “Let her loose, kid,” he’d said. “She’ll find her feet just like you did.”

  So be it.

  Even though it was past midnight, Max was not home.

  Determined not to worry, Lucky picked up the phone and called Lennie, who was on location in Utah. They talked for a while; he soothed her fears about Max, told her not to obsess and that he’d see her in Vegas for the birthday party.

  Lucky decided that for once she’d listen.

  One big Vegas party, coming up. And after that she’d send Max on her way with her blessing and hope that everything worked out.

  * * *

  “Frankie?” Max yelled, making a wild dash toward the guy emerging from a Grand Sport convertible Corvette. “Is it really you?”

  Frankie Romano stopped mid-stride, slowly lowering his mirrored Ray-Bans—an unnecessary accessory because it was dark out. The shades were merely an affectation.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed, after scrutinizing her up and down. “Little Max?”

  “Not so little anymore,” she answered boldly, remembering the last time she’d seen her brother’s friend, the irascible Frankie Romano. He was thinner than she remembered, but his outfit was cool—all leather, retro shades covering his eyes, his dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Very L.A.

  She gestured toward the entra
nce of the new club, where a restless gathering of girls dressed to seduce and a rowdy bunch of guys hoping to get laid attempted to talk their way past three burly security doormen. “Can you get me and my friends in?” she asked, throwing Frankie a winning smile.

  “Hey,” Frankie said, with a nod of his head, “if I can’t, nobody can. Follow me.”

  Max grabbed Cookie’s and Harry’s arms, and without hesitation, they marched in behind Frankie.

  The doorman gave Frankie a respectful salute.

  “Wow!” Max exclaimed, suitably impressed. “They’re acting as if you own the place or something.”

  “I do,” Frankie boasted, although not truthfully. “It’s mine, all mine.”

  Max widened her eyes. The last she’d heard of Frankie, he’d been dumped by Annabelle Maestro, his longtime girlfriend, and was looking for a job. Now he claimed to own this happening new L.A. club. She wondered if Bobby was aware of it, because as far as she could recall, the two of them had fallen out due to Frankie’s over-the-top drug habit. Too bad. She’d always sort of liked Frankie in a weird way, even though he’d tried to letch after her when she was sixteen and staying with Bobby in New York.

  “Does Bobby know you’re in the club business?” she asked as Frankie guided them straight to a booth.

  “You think Bobby has dibs on running clubs?” Frankie responded, his left eye twitching beneath his shades. “I was deejaying before he ever got into the whole club scene. I would’ve given him a chance to invest in River, but we’ve been out of touch. His loss.”

  “Guess he missed out,” Max said vaguely, checking out the club, which resembled a poor rip-off of Mood.

  “Since your brother hooked up with that lawyer bitch, you gotta know he’s totally pussy-whipped,” Frankie said gruffly. “She’s got his balls in a clench. Came between us big time.”

  “I thought it was—”

  “What?” Frankie said, shooting her a sharp look.

  “Nothing,” she mumbled, biting down on her bottom lip. Bobby had told her that Frankie’s addiction to coke was not something he could deal with anymore, especially since Denver was a Deputy DA.

  “So … little Max, all grown up,” Frankie said, moving close, his thigh pressing up against her leg. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

  “Amazing,” Max replied, edging away because the last thing she needed was Frankie coming on to her.

  “You’re looking hot,” he continued. “Smokin’ hot.”

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling uncomfortable. Was he stoned? Probably.

  “Wow!” Cookie exclaimed. “This place is totally bangin’.”

  Frankie turned his attention to her. “You like?” he said. “I designed the place myself.” Another lie.

  “We like,” Cookie answered, nudging Harry while wondering how old Frankie was, and if he was too old for her. “Can we score a drink?”

  “You got it,” Frankie said, snapping his fingers, grabbing the attention of a half-naked waitress with long talonlike nails and a fixed smile. “You all have your fake ID’s on you, I hope.”

  “Wouldn’t be without them,” Cookie replied, licking her generous lips and fluttering her purple-tipped eyelashes.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Frankie said, thinking that this one might be young, but she was certainly ready.

  And what the hell? Young was his flavor of the night.

  * * *

  Pizza and a movie turned out to be sushi at Matsuhisa, a favorite of Denver’s.

  “I love this restaurant,” she said, helping herself to a California roll.

  “Why do you think I chose it?” Bobby said, reaching for her hand across the table.

  “’Cause you wanted to surprise me?”

  “Ah, but she’s so smart,” he said, dazzling her with one of his special smiles.

  “And she’s dressed for pizza and a movie,” Denver said ruefully.

  “And she looks gorgeous,” he assured her.

  “Thanks, Bobby,” she said, taking a sip of warm sake.

  “For what?”

  “For always making me feel good.”

  “That’s easy.”

  “It is?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Don’t you always know the right thing to say.”

  “Speaking of the right thing—you are coming to Vegas with me next weekend for Max’s party, yes?”

  “I … I’m going to try,” she said, still hesitant.

  “Whaddya mean, try?”

  “Well … y’know, work…”

  “I told you,” he said insistently, “we’ll go Friday, come back Sunday. You won’t miss a thing.”

  “You have to understand, Bobby, transferring to the drug unit is kind of a big deal. I want to be fully prepared.”

  “Like I said, you’ll bring your laptop. We’ll have plenty of downtime.”

  “Can I think about it?” she asked tentatively.

  “She’ll think about it,” he said, exasperated. “Have I ever told you you’re one stubborn woman?”

  “Simply because I don’t say yes to you all the time…”

  “No, you don’t, do you?” he said, giving her a long, intent look. “Is that why I like you?”

  “Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “I guess you’re used to women saying yes at all times.”

  Bobby started to laugh. “What women did you have in mind?”

  “Remember high school? You and M.J. had it all going on. Girls falling out of trees.”

  “Oh c’mon, Denver,” he said with a quizzical expression. “Now we’re reverting to high school? How come you’re remembering that now?”

  “’Cause watching Mister Football Star score was the main entertainment of the day.”

  “Then aren’t I glad it’s all behind me, an’ now I’ve got you.”

  “Really?” she teased. “You’ve got me, have you?”

  “Don’t I?” he said, grinning. “We’ve been together how long?”

  “I dunno,” she said, knowing exactly how long. “Three months, maybe.”

  Bobby shook his head. “‘Maybe,’ she says! You’re supposed to tell me to the minute.”

  “I am, huh?”

  “Yes, you am.”

  They smiled at each other, savoring the moment.

  One of the reasons she enjoyed spending time with Bobby was because they always had so much to talk about. He often regaled her with stories about his deceased father’s family, who all resided in Greece, apart from his niece, Brigette. Brigette lived in New York and had once been a top model. Along with Bobby, Brigette had inherited most of the Stanislopoulos fortune. Although he was uncomfortable talking about money, Bobby had informed her that he’d chosen not to touch his inheritance, preferring to make his own money from the success of his clubs.

  She admired him for his desire to make it on his own. Only occasionally did he indulge in any kind of extravagance—such as using the Stanislopoulos plane.

  Sometimes she told him stories about her family, a family he still hadn’t met. She was reticent about introducing him to her political activist mother and maverick lawyer father. Not to mention her three brothers. They’d all been very fond of her ex, Josh, and she didn’t think she should add Bobby into the mix until she was sure they’d stay together for longer than a few months.

  Bobby laughed about it. “Not good enough to meet your family, huh?” he teased.

  “You will,” she assured him.

  And yes, one day she would definitely bring him to meet them. But not yet. It was too soon.

  “Bobby!” an exceptionally pretty model type exclaimed, stopping by their table. “Oh my God! I haven’t seen you since Graydon’s party in New York. How are you? What are you doing in L.A.?”

  “Uh … hey,” Bobby managed. He didn’t have a clue who she was, and he didn’t much care. “Do you two know each other?” he said, gesturing toward Denver.

  The girl threw Denver a cursory glance, then proc
eeded to ignore her. “We must get together,” she purred, leaning toward Bobby. “I miss you. Call me, I’m at the Mondrian.”

  Then she tottered off on her six-inch heels, looking pleased with herself.

  “Nice,” Denver remarked.

  “I swear I don’t know who she is,” Bobby insisted.

  “That’s okay,” Denver said, determined not to throw a jealous fit over nothing. “I have exes too.”

  “She’s not an ex,” he said firmly. “No idea who she is.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Bobby.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed. “All that matters is that I’m sitting here with you.”

  The thing about Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos was that he always knew the right thing to say.

  * * *

  Max was ready to go, and so was Harry, but Cookie was putting up a fight. “I wanna stay,” she said stubbornly. “Frankie’ll look out for me.”

  “You can’t stay,” Max argued. “We’re in Harry’s car.”

  “I’ll get a ride,” Cookie said.

  “Oh, like who you gonna get a ride from?” Max snapped.

  Cookie shrugged. “I’m sure Frankie’ll drive me home.”

  “For shit’s sake!” Max exclaimed. “Don’t you know that all Frankie wants is to get into your pants?”

  “So?” answered Cookie with a slightly tipsy smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”

  They were arguing in the booth several mojitos later. Frankie was off meeting and greeting, playing the genial host, and Max wasn’t feeling it. She wanted out. So did Harry.

  “We can’t leave you here by yourself,” Max said, looking to Harry for some support.

  “I told you, Frankie’ll look after me,” Cookie said, leaning back in the booth.

  “Frankie’s a cokehead, an’ he’s old,” Harry sneered. “You don’t wanna hit that.”

  “He’s so not old, an’ he’s hot,” Cookie insisted. “You two better get the fuck outta here, ’cause I’m stayin’.”

  Max decided not to argue. She knew what Frankie was like, and if Cookie was intent on taking that road, there was nothing she could do about it. Cookie was hardly a virgin; she’d been around Hollywood all her young life.