Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  Dammit! What did she want from him?

  Armand was furious, but he’d acquiesced all the same, since he’d never been able to say no to Peggy. Whenever he was in her presence, he felt less of a man, more of a boy. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing he could do about it, it had always been that way.

  His childhood memories were not pleasant. A few weeks after his eleventh birthday, Peggy had caught him torturing the neighbor’s cat, whereupon she’d forced him to pull down his pants in front of several of her friends and whipped him on the butt a dozen times with a thick leather belt. He’d barely been able to sit down for a week.

  The deep humiliation mixed with the intense pain and the fear of his mother had stayed with him for a very long time. After that, whenever he did anything bad, he made sure she never found out.

  On their return trip to the airport, Armand had Fouad alert their driver to stop and pick up Peggy. She sashayed out to the limousine accompanied by five pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage. As usual she was dressed for attention, wearing a yellow Valentino suit and matching Louboutins, her flaming-red hair setting off her pale skin.

  Armand tried not to breathe in her overpowering scent. The familiar smell sickened him; it reminded him of when they’d moved from Akramshar to New York, and she’d insisted that every morning he jumped into her bed for a cuddle. The cuddle had involved the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him while her strong perfume completely enveloped him. He was eight years old, and the smell had lingered in his nostrils all day long. Childhood memories did not please him.

  “Peggy,” he said, greeting her stiffly, using her name because the moment he’d hit his teenage years she’d requested that he no longer call her Mother, claiming it made her feel old. So Peggy it was.

  “Mrs. Dunn,” Fouad said, always polite and proper. “It is so nice to see you again. I feel that it’s been too long.”

  Armand shot him a disgusted look. How dare Fouad encourage her, make her feel welcome? She was not welcome at all.

  “Nice to see you too, Fouad. Tell me, how is your lovely family?” Peggy inquired, always gracious.

  “Very well, thank you for asking,” Fouad replied.

  “I only wish Armand would find a nice girl and settle down.” Peggy sighed. “You are a shining example, Fouad. I admire you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dunn.”

  “Why this sudden interest in coming to Vegas?” Armand asked, his tone brusque.

  “Why not?” Peggy said, delighted she’d made the decision to accompany her only child to Vegas. “It was once my home, you know,” she added, looking forward to revisiting the city she’d been plucked from as an eighteen-year-old girl.

  Forty-two years had passed, but Peggy had never forgotten her life back then. As a dancer in one of the most popular shows in town, she’d received more than her share of attention. With her red hair and delicate white skin she’d been quite the standout; men could not get enough of her. And then King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan had swooped into town and claimed her for himself. He’d plied her with gifts and jewelry, and she’d allowed herself to be swept up in the dazzle. It was mysterious and exciting, like a fairy tale. Without much thought, she’d accepted the king’s proposal and gone with him to his country, leaving behind her pit boss boyfriend, Joe Piscarelli, who she’d always suspected was mob connected. When she told Joe she was leaving, he flew into a vile rage, called her a gold-digging cunt, and warned her to never set foot in Vegas again.

  She hadn’t until now.

  Where was Joe Piscarelli forty-two years later?

  Probably dead, Peggy thought with a frisson of satisfaction. Buried in a ditch somewhere in the desert. That would teach him to call her names.

  Back in the day, Vegas was quite the place to be if you were a girl with big dreams. Her dreams had certainly materialized—marriage to a king, an enormously rich second husband, and a billionaire son. Not too shabby for a girl who’d come from nothing.

  * * *

  The flight to Vegas was turbulent. Armand was never bothered by things like that, but since becoming a father to his two children, Fouad hated turbulence. He white-knuckled his way to landing, then set about organizing the luggage to be loaded into the stretch limousine waiting on the tarmac alongside the plane.

  Armand was annoyed that Peggy had brought so many suitcases with her. He sat in the back of the limo and fumed. “We’re only here for a day or so,” he muttered. “Why did you feel the need to bring so much?”

  “You never know,” she answered, with a vague wave of her hand. “I might stay awhile.”

  Her statement alarmed Armand, for when he purchased The Keys, the last person he wished to have hanging around was Peggy. His mother belonged in New York, and that’s exactly where he expected her to stay.

  “What meetings do you have here, Armand?” she asked as the limousine sped away from the airport.

  None of your damn business, he would say if Peggy were a normal woman.

  But she wasn’t normal.

  She was his mother.

  The only woman he had ever feared.

  * * *

  Armand was situated in the Presidential Suite at The Keys. Four bedrooms, two living rooms, a sauna, a steam shower, five bathrooms, a fully equipped bar, a pool table, a game room, and a private rooftop swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was more luxurious than his New York apartment, and he decided that when he bought the place, he would use this suite as his own pied-à-terre while he built himself a magnificent mansion on the property.

  There was no doubt in his mind that The Keys would be his. No doubt at all.

  “Make certain Peggy stays elsewhere,” he’d instructed Fouad before arrival. “Book her into another hotel. Tell her The Keys is full.”

  “Are you sure?” Fouad had asked.

  “Of course I’m sure,” Armand had replied, annoyed that Fouad would question him.

  Fouad had managed to arrange a one-bedroom suite for Peggy at the Cavendish, a neighboring hotel to The Keys. She was surprised when the limousine dropped her off first.

  “No room at The Keys,” Armand said brusquely, shooting Fouad a Why didn’t you tell her? look. Jesus Christ! Did he have to do everything himself?

  “The whole point of my coming here was to spend more time with you, Armand,” Peggy complained, quite disappointed. “There are things we need to discuss.”

  “It’s unfortunate, but there is a big convention at The Keys,” Fouad explained, attempting to smooth things over. “No more suites available. And of course Armand did not wish to put you in a room. He requires only the best for you.”

  Little did Peggy suspect that Armand would be occupying a suite with four bedrooms. If she’d known that, she would have insisted on staying with him.

  “Very well,” she said, pursing her lips. “And what time will you be picking me up for dinner?”

  Armand had not factored in taking Peggy to dinner. This was Vegas, home of the most expensive and inventive call girls in America. Girls who never balked at any request, however out of line. As long as the money flowed, anything was possible, and he’d been planning on taking full advantage. Armand’s line of credit in Vegas was limitless, plus he always travelled with a suitcase full of cash in case of an unforeseen emergency.

  Yes, he was ready to indulge himself, and now Peggy expected dinner? Goddammit! This was not the trip he had imagined.

  “I thought you would be tired after the flight,” he said tersely. “Perhaps room service?”

  Peggy threw him a scornful look. “Tired, Armand? Me? How old do you think I am? Eighty?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Pick me up at eight,” she ordered, cutting him off. “And make sure we go somewhere fancy. I plan on dressing up.”

  The moment Peggy was out of the limousine, Armand issued more instructions. He handed Fouad an engraved card stamped with the name Yvonne Le Crane, a phone number, and an e-mail address. “Book two women to be in my suite at five.
An Asian and a black girl, both under twenty-five,” he ordered. “I will keep them for two hours. Then at midnight, three more girls. White, preferably from Texas, with blond hair.”

  Fouad was almost speechless. Since when had he been appointed head pimp? He was not an assistant, he was a vice president at Jordan Developments, a man who deserved at least a modicum of respect. Now Armand was instructing him to order up hookers? This was a ridiculous situation.

  “I suggest you might want to make this phone call yourself,” Fouad said, swallowing his anger. “There could be questions I cannot answer. And I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

  Armand considered Fouad’s words and, surprisingly, agreed. Yes, he was specific when it came to the women he paid. He would call Yvonne Le Crane; that way he would get exactly what he required. No mistakes.

  After all, he was a prince among men, and he expected only the best.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A text from Bobby informed Max that she and her friends should meet in the private sector of LAX at noon the next day to take the Stanislopoulos plane to Vegas.

  She was excited to go on Bobby’s plane, and even more excited to spend time with her big brother, whom she adored.

  As luck would have it, after she’d agreed that Cookie could bring Frankie to Vegas, Cookie had announced that they would be driving, since Frankie wanted to have his car there. Max considered this to be perfect, because turning up to meet Bobby with Frankie in tow might’ve been majorly awkward.

  Harry was delighted about being invited on the private plane, and asked if Paco, who had a gig in Vegas, could hitch a ride too.

  Max agreed, and then she thought, Oh, great. Everyone will have someone in Vegas except me.

  No time to think about that; her main concern was planning the perfect outfit to wear to Billy’s house. Her closet contained a ton of options, none of them quite right. After rummaging through everything she possessed, she finally settled on skinny black jeans, a simple white tank top, and a black cashmere dance hoodie. Tough but cute. It was her look, especially when she added a dozen thin studded bangles, big earrings, a long leather necklace with crosses and shark teeth hanging from it, and a low-slung belt.

  Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if she looked any different.

  Would anyone be able to tell that she’d finally done the deed?

  No way.

  “But I can tell,” she whispered to herself. “And it feels so right.”

  Then Ace ruined everything by texting that he was driving into L.A. so that they could celebrate her birthday together.

  Crap! She hadn’t told him about Vegas. And she certainly wasn’t planning on telling him about Billy. What was a girl supposed to do?

  She quickly texted him back, hoping that he wasn’t already on the road. My mom wants me in Vegas, she tapped out, keeping it vague. Call you when I get back.

  That should stop him. And when she did get back, she would give him the news that it was over between them.

  Sorry, Ace. Too bad. It was fun while it lasted.

  Meanwhile, she had Billy on her mind. She couldn’t stop reliving their night together: their long conversations, the feel of his body next to hers. It was like some kind of awesome dream, a dream she never, ever wanted to stop.

  Billy Melina. Who would believe it?

  * * *

  “Billy Melina. Who would believe it?” the reporter said as Billy slid into the booth beside her. The girl was in her late twenties, pretty in an aggressive way, with big boobs and an ultra-short skirt. She was on assignment from Rolling Stone, and she didn’t seem to care that he was three hours late for their sit-down interview.

  Bambi, his personal publicist, cared. So did the studio publicist. So did the groomer—hired for the day to make sure Billy looked his best at all times. They all hovered anxiously by the table, until Billy waved them away and told them to come back in an hour.

  Girl reporter, whose name was Melba, repeated her words.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Billy said, leaning back and ordering a Diet Coke. “Got hung up at the beach.”

  “Were you getting laid?” Melba asked, licking her lips and giving him a flinty stare, as if she knew everything about him, or was about to.

  “’Scuse me?” Billy said, narrowing his blue eyes. This one was determined to be confrontational, and he didn’t like it. Dealing with female reporters could sometimes be tricky.

  “I always like to start an interview off with a bang,” Melba said with a half smirk.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, I like to get down early on. Move in real close to my subject. The closer, the better.”

  Was she propositioning him? Probably. Now that he was a big star, all the girls did. And the guys too, because naturally gay rumors abounded—as they did with every other young male star. He wasn’t gay. Never tried it. Never had any desire to do so. Not that there was anything wrong with it.

  Normally he might’ve contemplated taking this girl back to his house for the old blow-job-by-the-pool routine. But after being with Max, he wasn’t feeling it. There was something about Max that was incredibly fresh and appealing, and he’d begun to think that it might be nice to get to know her. But there was a big problem—she was Lucky and Lennie’s kid, and with the whole Venus divorce drama going on, dating Max was hardly about to fly.

  He decided that he’d have to let her down easy. She was young and vulnerable, and seemed to like him a lot. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he decided that when she came to pick up Lucky’s Ferrari, he’d tell her he had another PR gig to go to and send her home.

  “What’s on your mind, Billy Melina?” Melba asked, licking her lips yet again. “You’re not concentrating.”

  “What’s on yours?” he countered. Sit-down interviews were not his strong suit, and he had a bad feeling about this one.

  “Your divorce,” Melba said, anticipating a juicy reply. “How nasty will it get?”

  “Not at all on my part,” he said nonchalantly. “I’m fine with it.”

  “No gory details?” Melba pressed. “Some salacious tidbit that nobody else knows?”

  “Sorry to disappoint—no.”

  “Shame. I would’ve thought being married to a controlling older woman would’ve produced all kinds of problems.”

  “You heard it here first,” Billy said, keeping his cool and wishing he hadn’t sent the PRs away. “No problems. And, uh … shouldn’t we be talking about my movie?”

  * * *

  Sometimes Denver felt that she could cheerfully murder her family. They never let up on her all night with questions about Bobby.

  When’s he coming?

  Why is he so late?

  Who is this guy?

  What exactly does he do?

  You like him, you really like him.

  She’d received a series of texts from Bobby full of excuses about cancelled and delayed flights, but she was disappointed by the time she headed home. Couldn’t he have made more of an effort to meet her family for the first time? It pissed her off that he hadn’t done so.

  Amy Winehouse greeted her as if she’d been gone a year. A rush of happy barking, followed by wet doggy licks and kisses all over her face. It was comforting to feel wanted.

  She took Amy for a walk around the block, and returned to find that Sam had left another message. He was certainly persistent.

  And normal.

  And attractive.

  Why not go for him instead of the dazzlingly rich, too-handsome-for-his-own-good Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos?

  Interesting question.

  Easy answer.

  I love Bobby, and that’s all there is to it.

  * * *

  Prowling around Kennedy Airport was giving Bobby the distinct feeling that he was trapped in a maze of bars, fast-food restaurants, and donut and magazine stands, plus a hundred other useless stores. The flight he was supposed to be on had been canceled at the last minute, while the curren
t flight he was booked onto kept getting delayed.

  It occurred to him that he was an idiot not to have had the Stanislopoulos plane pick him up in New York. Such a dumb move. What was he thinking?

  After trying to get on an earlier flight—fully booked—he made his way back to the lounge with the latest Harlan Coben thriller and attempted to read and chill out. But he soon found it impossible to concentrate—too much going on in his head. The new clubs he was planning to build were a real challenge. Exciting, but at the same time quite daunting. He’d conquered New York and Vegas with Mood, so bring on L.A. and Miami. After that, who knew?

  His big ambition was to create an empire. His empire. And maybe, like Gino and Lucky before him, he would eventually move into the hotel business. He had in mind small boutique hotels that would cater to a distinct clientele, people who were looking for somewhere special and private.

  “Bobby?”

  He glanced up, and there stood Annabelle Maestro, Frankie’s ex-girlfriend, now a minor TV personality since the murder of her movie-star mother and the arrest of her action-star father. Annabelle was a true child of Hollywood. She had written a book about growing up in L.A. with famous parents, and then all about the year she’d spent running call girls in New York. Like most people who became stars of reality television, she’d made a career out of simply being seen around, appearing on talk shows, and doing nothing much at all.

  “Annabelle Maestro,” Bobby exclaimed, putting down his book. “How’re you, stranger?”

  Annabelle immediately sat down next to him without being invited to do so. “I’m doing so well it’s ridiculous,” she gushed, pretty and powdered in a slightly plastic way, with her very long pale-golden-red hair, high cheekbones, and suspiciously plump lips.

  Bobby had known her way before she’d hooked up with Frankie, along with M.J., Denver, and Carolyn; they’d all attended the same Beverly Hills high school.

  “My schedule is completely insane,” Annabelle continued. “Ever since the success of my book.”