“No deadbeats or losers,” Max instructed. “It has to be kids we know an’ trust. An’ I don’t want anyone hangin’ around in the house—they can only use the patio, the pool, or the beach.”
“Whatever,” Cookie said, waving her beringed hand in the air. “I’m telling Frankie he can only bring way hot guys.”
Max frowned. “You’re inviting Frankie?” she said, not happy at the news. “Why are you doing that?”
“’Cause why shouldn’t I?” Cookie responded, immediately combative. “He’s cool. He’ll fit right in. Besides,” she added succinctly, “he could be my future boyfriend.”
“Gimme a fuckin’ break,” Harry muttered, snorting with disgust.
“What if I wanted to invite Bobby?” Max argued. “You know they kind of fell out.”
“Bobby? Here? At our party?” Cookie said, pulling on her dreadlocks. “No way. Bobby’s a killjoy. He’d stop the booze an’ all kinds of crap. He’s like your way too protective big brother. Forget ’bout inviting him.”
“Cookie’s right,” Harry said, fingering his spiked hair so it stood up even higher. “Bobby’s always checking out what you’re drinking an’ watchin’ out for you. It’s sick.”
“That’s ’cause he cares about me,” Max said, getting all defensive.
“Well, you don’t want him caring when we’re tryin’ to have ourselves a time,” Cookie remarked. “What fun is that?”
“Yeah,” Max admitted. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You askin’ Ace?” Harry wanted to know.
Max thought about it for a moment. Should she ask Ace? Or would he do the Bobby thing and prevent her from having fun? And she really wanted to have fun, maybe even get a little crazy. Why not? It was about time. “Dunno,” she answered vaguely. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe not,” Cookie said with a knowing smile. “I’d keep it loose if I was you. Who knows what tomorrow night will bring. Let’s go for it all the way. Let’s PARTEE!”
* * *
M.J. and Bobby’s Russian investors consisted of two burly men and an exceptionally tall woman in her fifties with yellow vampirelike teeth, thick legs, and an overbearing, critical attitude. Not to mention a hideous fuchsia masculine-style business suit. She spoke in her native tongue to her two companions and practically ignored Bobby and M.J., who were showing them around the premises.
Bobby was getting aggravated. The woman was a rude piece of work, and he couldn’t stand her. However, these investors represented major money, so he attempted to stay cool.
M.J. calmed him down. “They’ve already agreed to put up all the money for the L.A. and Miami clubs,” he said in a low voice. “This is just a courtesy visit. I got the contracts all ready for them to sign.”
Fuck ’em, Bobby thought. I don’t need their money. I could finance both clubs with my own money.
If he wanted to.
Which he didn’t.
Long ago he’d made up his mind that his success could not depend on his inheritance. For some insane reason he had it in his head that he had to make it on his own. It was something he felt strongly about.
The Russians finally finished their tour, whereupon M.J. suggested they sit in a booth so they could sign the contracts that both sets of lawyers had already approved.
“We sign, we sign,” Vampire-Teeth said, scarlet lipstick caking on her thin lips. “Later. We come back later, see club full.”
“Sure,” M.J. said, all easy charm as he guided them toward the glass elevator.
“Sure my ass,” Bobby grumbled when they’d left. “I’m supposed to be on a plane to New York tonight. I’ve got meetings.”
“Don’t sweat it,” M.J. said. “I can look after them.”
“No,” Bobby said. “You’ve got too much on your mind. I’ll take an A.M. flight an’ stay here with you. This is too important to screw up.”
“Are you sayin’ I’d screw it up?”
“No way, man, but we both need to be here. We have to make sure they sign the contracts tonight.”
“You’re right,” M.J. said. “I’ll have the office change your flight.”
Bobby nodded. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in Vegas without Denver. But some things had to be done, and this was one of them.
* * *
In between texting and making calls about their upcoming rave, Cookie expected to get a call from Frankie, and when it didn’t come, she was pissed.
“I’m callin’ him,” she announced.
“Don’t do that,” Max warned.
“Why not?”
“’Cause it’ll make you look desperate.”
“Screw it. I’m doin’ it.”
The three of them, Cookie, Max, and Harry, were holed up in Harry’s room at the top of his father’s Bel Air mansion, a sad place since his mom, a born-again Christian, ran off with her pastor. They now resided in Arizona.
Harry’s room was all dark and creepy, with heavy purple drapes to keep out the sunlight, and walls painted black. He’d actually painted the room himself, and he was so pleased with it that he’d painted his bathroom black too.
“Your living quarters suck,” Max complained, staring around at the gloomy surroundings. “It’s so, like, depressing. I dunno why we’re here.”
“To load up on booze,” Harry reminded her. “My old man won’t be home till midnight, an’ I can’t move a dozen bottles of tequila an’ twelve cases of imported beer by myself.”
“Right,” Cookie said, distracted, as she was still hoping Frankie would call.
“How come a dozen bottles of tequila?” Max asked.
“Some actor sent them to him to try to score a part on one of his shows. He’s always getting suck-up gifts. He won’t even notice they’re missing.”
“Cool,” Max said.
“Bribery,” Harry responded. “And the douche actor didn’t even get the job.”
“If Cookie can separate from her phone, we should load up,” Max suggested, ready to get going.
“Whose car we gonna put it in?” Harry wanted to know.
“Mine,” Max decided. “That way we can unload it all when Lucky’s left.”
“What time’s she going?” Harry asked.
“Early in the A.M., I hope. The sooner she shifts outta L.A., the quicker we can get goin’ on the party.”
“An’ you’re certain your old man’s not gonna spring a surprise an’ come home unexpectedly?” Cookie questioned.
“Who, Lennie?” Max replied. “No way. Once I give the housekeepers the day off, we’re free—totally free! And I for one cannot freakin’ wait!”
CHAPTER TEN
Armand did not own a plane—too much trouble. He preferred hiring a private plane to fly him wherever he wished to go. On his yearly visit to Akramshar, he enjoyed stopping off for twenty-four hours in London, where he spent all his time at the Dorchester Hotel, ordering in a series of call girls. He insisted that his madam of choice—a titled woman who resided in a mansion in Belgravia and was forever recruiting new girls—send him only the best. Well-bred English girls with clipped upper-class accents, slim bodies, and excellent pedigrees.
Humiliating English women appealed to him. He plied them with drugs and watched them prostitute themselves while doing anything he commanded. It made a pleasant change from dealing with American whores, who sometimes acted as if they were faking it.
Recently, Armand’s cocaine habit had escalated, just as Fouad suspected. At first Armand had simply enjoyed watching the women lose all their inhibitions on drugs. But after a while he’d found he enjoyed the enhanced sensation of sexual power he felt when high on coke. And why not? He was invincible. He could do anything he wanted.
He especially enjoyed snorting cocaine off the women’s bodies—using them, toying with them, debasing them in any new way he could think of.
With his sexual appetite well sated, he was finally ready to spend forty-eight hours in Akramshar, avoiding Soraya and his four offspring, whom
he barely knew. He only made the yearly trek because of his father and their shared business interests.
When King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan passed on, there would be a huge fortune to be divided between the king’s sons (the women of the family would inherit nothing), and Armand had to make certain he received his rightful share. Not that he needed it, but he was damn well going to see that he received it. Plus, the companies he’d formed with the king would be all his.
He was fully aware that his father considered him the favorite among all of his sons, who now totaled eleven. He was the one who got away and made a huge success in America. He was the only one worth shit. And he was the one the king trusted to funnel his money into America in case he ever needed it.
Returning to Akramshar was always a jarring experience. Leaving the Western world and entering a city where men ruled supreme was quite primitive and yet strangely satisfying. Subservient women behaved the way all females should. But try telling the Americans that.
A black Mercedes met him at the airport and ferried him to his palace. Yes, he had a palace, on loan from the king. Sometimes he wondered how the stringy, social-climbing New York hostesses would feel if they knew he was a prince and lived in a palace. They would slit their skinny throats to get a piece of him.
Servants abounded, but Soraya was not there to greet him. As if he cared. The children were confined to their quarters—another plus.
Upon his arrival, he shed his clothes and enjoyed the comfort of the traditional male robe that all men wore. Most of the women in Akramshar were expected to be covered at all times, and rightly so. His mother had told him that under their burqas the women in the harem wore expensive clothes purchased in Rome and Milan, where King Emir sometimes took a select group of his wives for a long weekend. The king especially favored lacy lingerie, and on these trips he encouraged his wives to spend, spend, spend.
Peggy had needed no encouragement to do exactly that. She’d amassed an impressive collection of jewelry during the years she’d spent in Akramshar, and several trunks full of designer clothes.
Armand tried not to think about his mother too much. Sidney Dunn had died a year previously, and it annoyed him that since then Peggy had become quite demanding—phoning him at all hours, claiming that she didn’t see enough of him, wondering why he’d never married and given her grandchildren. Since she had no contact with anyone in Akramshar, she knew nothing of his wife and children.
Armand was well aware of what a nightmare it would be if she ever found out that he already had a family. A nightmare he was not prepared to deal with. She would insist on being involved, and when Peggy insisted on something, there was no stopping her.
Fouad was the only person who knew about his family, and he trusted Fouad to keep his silence. Fouad would never betray him; it was in his blood to remain loyal.
After changing into his robe, he retired to a males-only terrace room, far away from Soraya and the children. A manservant immediately brought him a cup of strong black tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. Another servant asked if he required a massage.
Yes, a massage was exactly what he required.
He sipped his tea, then entered a side room where soft music played. Two young women helped him out of his robe and, when he was fully naked, onto a massage table.
These women were not whores, they were servants who treated him like the prince he was. They trickled hot oil over his chest and stomach, moving slowly down to his groin area with their soothing hands. They wore white robes, which after a while he instructed them to remove. They were young—but not too young to service him with their soft lips. He felt aroused, and lay still while they brought him to orgasm. They were too young to humiliate; he couldn’t be bothered.
When they were finished, he required nothing except solitude and time to think about the prize he was about to acquire when he returned to America.
The Keys.
His hotel.
A place where he’d decided he would be forever content.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spending time with Sam was nice. Denver really appreciated his slightly skewed sense of humor. He was so laid-back and unthreatening, and not overly good-looking, although he was attractive in an Owen Wilson quirky kind of way. Also, he didn’t hail from a high-powered family, or at least she didn’t think he did, and that was another plus. Her brothers would love him; he was their kind of guy. Bobby—not so much. They’d find Bobby a bit out of their league.
Out of my league too, she thought wryly. Way out of my league.
Or not.
Lately she’d found herself trying to talk herself out of being with Bobby. It was almost as if she didn’t feel she deserved him, which of course was ridiculous.
Or was it?
He’d never even noticed her in high school, so why was he with her now? She was the same person. Well … almost. Minus the braces and bad hair and chubby curves.
Sam had walked her back to her apartment, and she hadn’t invited him in.
“Are you still seeing that guy you were with last time I was here?” he’d asked, striving to sound casual.
“Kind of,” she’d replied.
Kind of! Bobby would throw a fit if he heard how offhand she sounded about their relationship. Why hadn’t she said, “Yes, we’re together. Very much so. I love him and he loves me. So sorry, Sam, that’s why I’m not inviting you in.”
“Okay then,” Sam had said. “Maybe you’d like to come by the set one day—watch them all ignore me.” She laughed. “I can offer you a fine lunch off the catering truck,” he added. “Whaddya think?”
“Sounds irresistible. Only please remember I’m a working girl.”
“We’re shooting all next weekend,” he said, determined not to give up. “How about dropping by Saturday or Sunday?”
“I, uh, think I might have to go to Vegas,” she said, keeping it vague. “But, uh, I’ll call you.”
Great, Denver. Getting all friendly with an ex would not go down well with Bobby. What’s wrong with you?
Nothing. Or everything.
Suddenly she missed Bobby like crazy.
* * *
Finally Frankie returned one of Cookie’s seven calls. Max and Harry exchanged a relieved look. Cookie had been driving them nuts with her endless stream of comments about Frankie, all about what a stud he was, and how she could definitely fall for a guy like him, and WHY THE FUCK WASN’T HE CALLING HER BACK?
“He wants me to go to the club,” she announced, shooting Max and Harry a triumphant look. “Wanna come?”
“No thanks,” they chorused.
“Why not?” Cookie demanded, already trying to decide what to wear.
“’Cause I have to get everything ready for my party,” Max said.
She was excited about the party. It was actually the first time she would have the Malibu house all to herself. And it was an amazing house, so perfect to throw a fantastic party. As long as she could keep everyone out of the house, what harm could anyone do? She planned on locking all the bedrooms, the screening room, and Lucky’s and Lennie’s private studies. The enormous patio, the infinity pool, and the sandy beach would be more than enough space for everyone to have a great time. She estimated they’d invited around thirty people, who would probably all bring a friend or two—so maybe they’d end up with seventy or eighty. Just the right number of bodies.
Harry was busy organizing a deejay he knew, and Cookie had already booked the In-N-Out hamburger truck to arrive at ten P.M., so it was all systems go.
Max had still not made up her mind about whether to invite Ace. He’d be a last-minute decision.
Cookie took off, and Max decided an early night wouldn’t be a bad idea, so after she and Harry had finished loading up her trunk with as many boxes of beer and tequila as they could fit in, she gave Harry a hug and headed for home.
Tomorrow would be a very busy day indeed.
* * *
Bobby was not happy. He’d had to postpone
his flight to New York, and now he was sitting in a strip club with M.J., the two male Russian investors, and the lone female, who was obviously a raving lesbian the way she was stuffing hundred-dollar bills into the strippers’ almost nonexistent G-strings.
Fuck! He wanted out. But he couldn’t leave M.J. to handle them on his own. They were a tricky trio. First they’d requested dinner and a show. Then they’d spent ten minutes in Mood—thank God it was only ten minutes. Finally M.J. had gotten them to sign the papers, at which point they’d insisted on celebrating at a famous Vegas gentleman’s strip club to cement the deal.
Bobby had a strong aversion to clubs that featured strippers. He wasn’t one of the guys when it came to a bunch of bored, vaguely desperate females taking off their clothes for the public’s pleasure. He felt sorry for the girls, and even sorrier for the usually drunk guys who sat there with their mouths hanging open, hoping for a stray tit to come their way.
The strippers immediately gravitated toward Bobby and M.J.—two handsome, apparently sober guys.
“Wanna go private, honey?” a breast-enhanced redhead whispered in Bobby’s ear, her tasseled nipple grazing his cheek.
“Uh … not tonight,” he managed.
“You won’t regret it, sweet thing,” she purred, licking her lips. “I got moves you ain’t gonna see on Dancing with the Stars.”
“I bet,” he said, backing away and indicating Miss Russia, who had shed her jacket and stern expression and was eyeing a small blonde with lustful eyes. “Take her private. I’ll pay.”
“Spoil sport,” the redhead whispered, but she moved over to the woman, grabbed her by the hand, and led her back to one of the private champagne rooms.
Bobby leaned over to M.J. “They’ve signed the papers. You think we can get the hell out of here?”
Before M.J. could answer, Bobby’s cell rang. He almost didn’t hear it, what with Lady Gaga screaming about paparazzi on the sound system, and the general noise.
It was Denver. He’d tried to reach her earlier to tell her he hadn’t left for New York yet, but she hadn’t picked up.
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