M.J. didn’t care. He was crazy about his young wife, but now with a baby on the way, there was a catch, something he couldn’t wait to discuss with Bobby.
“Great wheels!” M.J. exclaimed, checking out Bobby’s Lamborghini.
Bobby nodded. “Yeah—since I’ve been spending so much time on the West Coast, I decided I needed to buy me a car. It can get up to two hundred eleven miles per hour, man. It’s insane, and I love every minute of it. Denver doesn’t.”
“No shit,” M.J. said, walking around the car, giving it a full inspection. “I wonder why.”
“Thinks it’s too flashy and fast.”
“Well, bro, low-key it ain’t.”
They laughed and exchanged an enthusiastic fist pump.
“How is your low-key girlfriend?” M.J. asked as they entered the enormous glass-enclosed lobby. “Still putting away bad guys?”
“Denver’s great,” Bobby said. “She’s a special kind of girl.”
“I’m gettin’ you feel that way. I’ve never seen you so caught up.”
“What can I tell you?” Bobby said with a big grin. “The woman makes me happy.”
“And that, my man, is all that matters.”
“Right on!”
“An’ talking of happy,” M.J. said, “I got some news of my own.”
“Wanna tell me?”
“Cassie’s pregnant.”
“Jeez, M.J. You ready for that?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Told your parents yet?”
“Haven’t got around to it, but I will.”
“You’d better.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it.”
“They’ll be happy for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure they will. Now let’s go kick some investor butt. And later we gotta get together an’ celebrate.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Once Armand Jordan decided he wanted something, there was no going back, whether it be a woman, an unobtainable painting, a special delicacy, a one-of-a-kind car, or a building. Nobody ever said no to Armand, and if they did, he merely upped the price.
Usually he favored high-class call girls—hookers had tricks that other women did not possess. Little tricks. Dirty tricks. Filthy things a man can only dream about.
Once in a while he came across a woman who was not for sale. This did not faze Armand, for they all had a price. And sometimes it wasn’t monetary.
On occasion it intrigued him to discover what that price might be. It was a game he played for his own enjoyment, and when Armand played, he played to win.
His latest conquest was Nona Constantine, the wife of Martin Constantine, one of his rivals in the real-estate business, a man some considered to be almost as powerful as Armand.
How wrong they were!
Nona was exactly the kind of challenge he craved. Married, with a young child, she was a former beauty queen from Slovakia, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her husband doted on her, but Armand’s canny instinct allowed him to guess that ever since she’d given birth, Martin was not fucking her the way a woman yearned to be fucked.
Armand worked on her slowly, and since they moved in the same New York social circles—art gallery openings, charity events, small dinner parties—it was quite easy to get close to her. Especially as he always had a girl on his arm. Only he knew that his so-called “dates” were bought and paid for. That way they never gave him any trouble or made any demands. His unbreakable rule was never to use the same girl twice.
New York hostesses considered Armand Jordan a huge catch; they were always trying to fix him up. But he eluded their attempts. He was attractive in a slightly mysterious way, with a neat black mustache, thick eyebrows framing brooding eyes, and an impeccable dress sense. Only the best for Armand. He wore socks and underwear once, then threw them away. Shirts he might wear twice, but that was it. And his hand-tailored suits never stayed in his closet longer than a month.
The hostesses persevered, for not only was Armand mega rich, but it was rumored that back in the small Middle Eastern country he originally hailed from, he possessed some kind of title.
He never spoke of that.
It took him a couple of months to get Nona to his penthouse, on the pretext of showing her a rare Picasso he’d recently acquired. He did not mind the wait; in fact, he quite enjoyed the anticipation of the conquest.
She arrived at eleven in the morning, an innocent time of day. She had on a pale pink Chanel suit with a lacy blouse underneath, and beige Louboutin heels that clicked on his highly polished marble floor as he led her around his penthouse, giving her the grand tour. Finally they ended up in the master bedroom, a masculine room, all deep burgundy leather couches and black cashmere throws covering the oversized bed.
“No family photos,” Nona said, glancing around his stark bedroom. She laughed coquettishly. “Armand, you are such a man of mystery. And why do I always see you with a different girl? Surely you wish to meet a woman you can share your life with.”
“Why would I want to do that when I can have a woman like you?” he said, gazing into her eyes as if he meant it.
And just like that, all his hard work paid off. All the compliments and sly attention and flattery, flattery, flattery.
She was his. All his to use and abuse and humiliate.
Because that was his pleasure. That was his kick.
First he kissed her, roughly forcing his lips down on hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, giving her no chance to object. Then, without warning, his hand swooped under her skirt, and his thick fingers slid past her panties into the soft mound of flesh that was wet and willing and waiting for discovery.
No foreplay for this one. She was turned on the minute she’d walked into his apartment. Nona Constantine wanted it. And he was about to give it to her. Hard.
Navigating his thick fingers through her wiry pubic hair, he was excited by the furriness. He wound strands of hair tightly around his fingers until she cried out in pain. This pleased him. If he wanted a woman shaved like a child, he would have a child.
“Oh, Armand,” she gasped, flushed and breathless. “We shouldn’t be doing…”
It was a little late for objections. Too late.
He shoved her down onto the bed and thought about Martin Constantine and the concealed camera recording every moment. His thoughts made him as hard as he’d ever been.
Dipping into his bedside table drawer, he withdrew a glassine bag of cocaine and sprinkled some of the white powder on her erect nipples.
She writhed beneath him as he snorted the powder from her breasts. Then, as she begged him to fuck her, he gave it to her hard, ramming his penis into her with considerable force, then turning her over and taking her from behind—ignoring her objections and sudden cries of pain.
Realizing this was not going the way she’d hoped it would, she struggled to escape his relentless attack, but he was having none of it as he rode her hard, punishing her with his penis for being an unfaithful bitch.
He felt invincible and powerful. He was the man, and once again a woman had proved to him that all women were dirty whores.
Except perhaps his wife. But who cared about her? He certainly didn’t.
* * *
Later, after relentlessly fucking Nona Constantine in every possible way, he informed her that she was a cheating, filthy prostitute, physically dragged her from his bedroom, and threw her out.
The shock on her face was palpable as he hustled her out his front door, flinging her designer clothes after her.
“What? What did I do?” she sobbed, red in the face as he slammed the door on her.
He didn’t bother replying.
It was satisfying to know that there was nobody she could complain to, nothing she could do. She was fucked in more ways than one.
Once rid of his conquest, Armand snorted more coke and summoned Fouad, who worked downstairs in a different apartment. “Come up here,” Armand commanded.
“Right now.”
Fouad hurried to the penthouse.
“What’s happening with The Keys?” Armand demanded as soon as Fouad walked in.
“There is a half-naked woman crying outside your door,” Fouad remarked, noting that the prince wore only a bathrobe, and that there was a telltale residue of white powder under his nose. Armand’s use of cocaine was escalating, and it worried Fouad as he watched Armand become even more irrational and moody.
“I trust you ignored her,” Armand said, striding purposefully toward his palatial bathroom.
“Who is she?” Fouad asked.
“Martin Constantine’s wife,” Armand boasted. “I told you I can have any woman I want. They’re all whores.”
Fouad shrugged and followed him into the bedroom. He was well aware of Armand’s predilections when it came to women. Privately, he considered it a sickness, but he would never dare say anything. Although lately Armand’s sickness, coupled with his excessive use of drugs, was becoming almost dangerous.
“That crying bitch deserved everything she got,” Armand said, dropping his robe. “I took care of her in ways she won’t soon forget.”
“Does it not worry you that she might tell her husband?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fouad. She came here of her own free will. She wanted it. She was begging for it. Now remove the DVD from the camera, make two copies, and put them in my safe.”
“Yes, Armand,” Fouad said. He would make three copies and keep one for himself. Nothing like insurance when dealing with a man like Armand.
“And The Keys?” Armand said, unabashedly naked as he stepped into the all-marble shower. “What’s happening?”
“I have several calls in,” Fouad said, not wishing to reveal that he’d spoken to the owner’s attorney, and that he’d been informed that it was highly unlikely The Keys was for sale.
“What is taking so long?” Armand demanded as four powerful showerheads rained down on his body.
“You only told me you wanted to buy it two days ago,” Fouad pointed out. “There are times it is prudent to be patient.”
Armand stepped out of the shower dripping wet. “I am not a prudent man, Fouad. You above all people should know that.”
Fouad noted the prince’s large appendage and attempted to avert his eyes, even though he’d seen it many times before. The prince, like his father the king, was not shy.
“I understand, Armand,” he said evenly. “I am on top of it.”
“You’d better be,” Armand responded, vigorously toweling himself dry. “Whatever the price, I am prepared to pay.”
“Of course,” Fouad agreed, because agreeing was simpler than arguing.
“How is your wife?” Armand asked, abruptly changing the subject.
Fouad hesitated for only a moment. He had no wish to discuss his wife with Armand. He was well aware that Armand did not approve of his marriage. Armand thought he had made a mistake marrying an American girl. But Fouad adored his wife and two little children, and nothing Armand could say would ever change that.
“Alison is very well,” he answered carefully.
“Hasn’t cheated on you yet?” Armand said with a spiteful smirk.
Fouad maintained a steely silence.
“All American women cheat on their husbands eventually,” Armand stated. “Look at the whore I just threw out. She’s a classic example of a rich bitch with an itchy cunt.”
Fouad chose to ignore Armand’s crass remarks. Sometimes he found them difficult to understand, considering that Armand’s own mother was an American. But then Armand’s relationship with his mother had always been something of a problem.
“Go make some phone calls,” Armand said, abruptly dismissing his faithful right-hand man. “And before the end of the day, I wish to know that The Keys is mine.”
CHAPTER SIX
“What’s going on today? Anything I should know about?” Denver asked Leon, a young detective with whom she’d become friendly. It was Leon who had encouraged her to transfer to the drug unit, a move she was excited about.
Leon was African American and quite laid-back. He was excellent at his job, and had helped her get acclimated when she’d first arrived. They had a good buddy thing going on, which she hoped would last because sometimes she had a sneaking suspicion that Leon was on the verge of asking her out.
Please don’t, a little voice whispered in her head. I’m taken. Besides, it would be awkward.
Not that Leon wasn’t attractive. He was. He had a kind of chill Will Smith vibe going for him, and the ladies were always giving him the look. Denver ribbed him a lot. He acted bashful, but she knew he was a stud at heart.
“There’s a hostage deal happening,” Leon explained. “Some Mexican drug pusher grabbed his baby and barricaded himself in his house with an arsenal of weapons. I’m goin’ over there now. They’ve had to clear the neighborhood an’ close the street.”
“What else is new?” Denver asked, immediately thinking how blasé she sounded. And well she should, because if it wasn’t a hostage situation, it was a random shooting or a gang initiation or a murder or a high-speed car chase. Things were going on all the time, and she could not believe how isolated she’d been working at a top Beverly Hills law firm, where the main excitement of the day was some coked-out Hollywood starlet with two DUIs trying to dodge jail time, or a boring client lunch at Spago.
“Not enough for you, huh?” Leon said with a wide grin. “An’ how come you was late this morning?”
“I … uh…”
“Boyfriend in town?” he asked, leaning his elbows on her desk.
“Yes. Bobby’s here,” she admitted, a touch sheepishly. “But that has nothing to do with—”
“Morning sex,” Leon said, his grin spreading. “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Excuse me?” she said, pretending she had no clue what he was alluding to.
“You got the glow, girl,” Leon teased. “Comin’ off you in waves.”
Damn! She knew she did, and there was nothing she could do about it. Whenever she had sex it was written all over her face for everyone to see. How annoying was that?
“I have to work,” she said, powering up her computer. “So if you’ll—”
“I’m outta here,” Leon said, throwing up his arms. “Out. Gone. Good-bye. Adios.”
“Be careful,” she said.
“Always,” he said.
As soon as Leon left, her thoughts drifted to Bobby. It was ridiculous, but whenever she wasn’t with him, all she could do was think about him. So juvenile. It was almost as if they were back in high school, and who could forget those days? Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, the most popular boy in school. Football star, major jock, head of his class at everything. All the girls lusted after him, including her. But he’d never noticed her, hadn’t even realized she existed. And now, ten years later, she was his actual girlfriend. How weird was that?
Stop thinking about Bobby and get to work.
Okay, okay, I will.
* * *
“You’re up early,” Lucky said, regarding her daughter as Max came wandering outside onto the patio. The girl was all long bronzed legs, with a coltlike body. Her green eyes were still sleep-filled, her dark hair a cloudy mess. “Hard day’s night?” Lucky questioned, thinking what a beautiful child she and Lennie had created. Although Max was no longer a child; she was a young woman getting ready to take off.
“What?” Max mumbled.
“A Beatles reference.”
“Wow, Mom, you can be so obscure,” Max complained, flopping into a chair.
“And good morning to you too,” Lucky said dryly.
Yawning, Max reached for a jug of orange juice.
“What were you up to last night?” Lucky inquired.
“You’re not gonna question me, are you?” Max said, flashing her a disgusted look. “That would be so lame.”
“Why? You got something to hide?” Lucky replied, faintly amused.
“Oh yeah, like anyone could hide shit around you.”
“Nice,” Lucky said, thinking how much Max reminded her of herself as a teenager. Restless, full of sass, yearning for adventure, determined to do things her way yet still not quite sure of herself.
“Sorry,” Max allowed after a few moments of silence. “Crappy night.”
“That’s okay,” Lucky said, taking the understanding route. “By the way, I spoke to your brother yesterday. He sends much love.”
“Bobby?” Max said, perking up.
“No, your other brother, Gino Junior. He’s loving their trip; so is Leonardo. They’re currently in Switzerland, skiing like mad. Apparently they’re having a fantastic time.”
“Where is Bobby?” Max asked, wondering if she should tell him about Frankie. Or not. He’d probably be furious at her for taking Cookie and Harry to River in the first place. But how was she supposed to know it was Frankie’s club? She wasn’t a mind reader.
“Not sure,” Lucky said. “However, I do know he’ll be at your birthday party in Vegas.”
“Mom…” Max ventured. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m not certain I want a party.”
“Do not even attempt to back out,” Lucky said firmly. “You’re going to be eighteen. It’s a big deal. Everyone will be there. Gino, Lennie, Bobby…”
“Is Bobby bringing his girlfriend?”
“Which one?”
“You know perfectly well which one. Denver. They’re like a major hookup.”
“They are?” Lucky said vaguely.
“Oh please!” Max said, laughing. “You know it.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“Wow! Then you’re the only one who doesn’t. Why do you think Bobby keeps coming to L.A. when his clubs are in Vegas and New York?”
Double Lucky Page 47