Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  “Shh,” Harry scolded, his pale face turning bright red. “That’s such a random thing to say.”

  “Only asking,” Max said irritably, thinking that Harry should be a little nicer to her, considering she’d gotten his new friend a ride on Bobby’s plane. “No need to throw a fit.”

  “He’s sitting two feet away,” Harry hissed. “For crap’s sake—shut it!”

  Oh great. What a birthday this was going to be. Bobby in a mood, Harry acting like a dick, and no boyfriend, plus Cookie would be all over Mister Cokeaholic when they arrived.

  Fantastic fun. She might as well drown herself in one of the pools.

  * * *

  “How very thoughtful of you to bring my favorite car,” Denver said dryly as she gingerly lowered herself into the passenger seat of the Lamborghini. “I love it because it’s so low-key.”

  “Hey,” Bobby said, with a quick grin, “a boy’s gotta have some toys.”

  “And you are such a boy,” she responded. She couldn’t help laughing, because it was true. At times Bobby could be quite serious, but it was his playful streak she couldn’t resist. The private plane, the fancy car—all big-boy toys. He’d never admit it, but he had very expensive tastes.

  “By the way,” Bobby said, revving the engine. “Guess who I ran into at the airport in New York?”

  “Hmm, let me see … the pope? The president?”

  “Very amusing.”

  “I try.”

  “Annabelle Maestro.”

  “Oh my God! Not Annabelle,” Denver said, flashing onto her old school friend, who’d always treated her like a poor relation—even though they weren’t related. And when Annabelle’s movie-star mother had been murdered, and Denver was involved with defending Annabelle’s famous dad, she’d still been treated like the poor relative, even though she was a respected attorney with a top Beverly Hills law firm. “How is she?”

  “The same entitled bitch on wheels, minus Frankie.”

  Now Denver flashed onto Annabelle’s ex—the coke-addicted Frankie Romano, who used to be one of Bobby’s best friends. “Well,” she said, remembering Annabelle’s annoying sense of self-importance, “I hardly think it’s likely she’ll ever change. What did she have to say?”

  Bobby decided it was prudent not to mention that Annabelle had referred to Denver as “some kind of mutt.”

  “Not much,” he said, sliding into traffic. “Carrying on about that book she got published.”

  “Oh yes, My Life: A Hollywood Princess Tells All. What a crock of shit!”

  “I take it you’re not a fan?” Bobby said, amused.

  “Hell, no,” Denver said, shaking her head. “Annabelle was always a piece of work. Surely you remember her in high school.”

  Oh yes, he remembered Annabelle, all right, and it was a memory he’d sooner forget. He and M.J. had double-teamed her—with her consent—on a drunken prom night. Something to never mention, especially to Denver, who he was sure would not appreciate hearing about it.

  “I guess Frankie had a welcome escape,” Bobby ventured, zipping in front of a Cadillac.

  “I think they both did,” Denver said, briskly closing the subject. The last person she wished to talk about was Annabelle Maestro. And as for Frankie Romano—a total loser.

  “When we get to the hotel,” Bobby said, “unpack, an’ put on something casual.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He grinned. “You’ll see,” he said, barely missing a jaywalking pedestrian.

  “Mystery Man,” she murmured, loving that he had such a strong romantic streak.

  “Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “An’ doncha love it!”

  Yes, Bobby, I do.

  * * *

  “We’re here, an’ I’m, like, so into it!” Cookie singsonged, sliding her long brown legs out of Frankie’s car, flashing the valet parker with her miniskirt, under which she wore no panties.

  Frankie hadn’t bothered to book a room, because Cookie had informed him they would be well taken care of. He hadn’t realized they would be staying on what Max referred to as the Santangelo floor. When they got off the elevator, he was already feeling horny again, in spite of Cookie servicing him in the car. A little sex, a little gambling—Vegas had that effect on him.

  A stern-looking older black woman armed with a lengthy guest list sat at the reception desk facing the elevator.

  “Hiya, Betty,” Cookie said, swooping in for a friendly hug. “Are we in my usual room?”

  Betty gave Frankie a disapproving once-over.

  “’S okay,” Cookie said gaily. “He’s my boyfriend.”

  Betty reached for her glasses and consulted her list. “And his name is?”

  Frankie bristled. “Frankie Romano,” he said shortly. “An’ you can forget about a room; we need a suite. An’ make sure any calls get put directly through to me. Romano. R-O-M—”

  “I know how to spell, Mr. Romano,” Betty said caustically. “And I do believe all the suites are reserved.”

  “Well, unreserve one,” Frankie said, giving her a sharp look. “Lucky would want me to be comfortable.”

  Frankie and Betty locked eyes. It was not a friendly interaction.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Betty said at last, shuffling papers.

  Frankie reached into his pocket and flipped a hundred-dollar bill onto her desk. “You do that, hon.”

  Betty picked up the bill and gave it back to him. “Not necessary,” she said.

  “Take it,” Frankie insisted, thrusting it toward her.

  “No thank you,” Betty said, ignoring him as she calmly handed Cookie her door card.

  Cookie grabbed it, and pulled Frankie away from the desk. “Let’s go,” she singsonged. “Don’t mess with Betty, she can be fierce!”

  He threw Betty another look. “Suite,” he said shortly. “Deal with it.”

  Betty continued to ignore him.

  “Max and me—we come here all the time,” Cookie announced, flouncing into a large blue bedroom with a balcony overlooking the main swimming pool. “This is usually my room.”

  “I hope you heard me,” Frankie said, not pleased. “We need a suite. When Max gets here, you deal with it.”

  “Take no notice of Betty,” Cookie said. “She’s only doing her job. I’ll score us a suite. Don’t go gettin’ your balls in a spasm.”

  “You’d better,” Frankie said, grabbing her ass and squeezing hard. “I do not appreciate slummin’ it.”

  “Here’s the good news,” Cookie said. “Everything’s comped. Spa, restaurants, pool, shows. You name it—we get it for free.” She fished from her purse a black-and-gold credit card with her name engraved on it. “This is my ticket to ride,” she boasted. “Lucky handed them out to special people when The Keys opened. Bangin’, huh?”

  Frankie decided he wanted one of those. How come Bobby had never offered him one?

  The porter entered with their bags. Frankie tossed him the hundred-dollar bill the douche at reception had refused to accept. Always good to get out the word that there was a big spender in town.

  He wondered if Cookie’s magic credit card covered gambling, then smirked at the thought of losing Lucky Santangelo’s money in her casino. What a coup that would be.

  Thinking about Bobby’s foxy mom, he realized he hadn’t seen her in a while, ever since he and Bobby had lost touch. Lucky and Lennie had always been laid-back with him, always friendly. They were a major power couple, and a kick to be around. He decided that he should try to see more of them, invite them to his club, get reacquainted.

  Yeah. This was going to be some weekend, and Frankie Romano was expecting to take full advantage of whatever Vegas had to offer.

  * * *

  “Where we gonna stay?” Kev asked as they boarded the plane.

  Billy had been so intent on getting to Vegas that he hadn’t bothered to work out the details. Obviously it would not be wise to stay at The Keys. He called Bambi, his publicist, and told her to book h
im into the Cavendish.

  “Why exactly are you on your way to Vegas?” Bambi was curious to know. “Are you going for the big fight?”

  “You know I’m not a boxing fan.”

  “Well, then,” Bambi said. “Is something happening that I’m missing out on?”

  “Nothing but a twenty-four-hour crazy gamble with my friend Kev,” Billy assured her.

  “Okay,” Bambi said, somewhat put out. “Only please don’t forget that you have a cover shoot for Vanity Fair on Monday.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Bamb.”

  “You say that now, Billy,” Bambi lectured, worried that her star client was up to no good. “However, you kept the reporter from Rolling Stone waiting for three hours, then you proceeded to cut the interview short. She wasn’t happy, and I can’t say I blame her.”

  “The she who wasn’t happy was aiming to talk her way into my pants,” Billy explained. “You know how it is with some female reporters; they’re only around for the perks.”

  “You’re a big boy, Billy,” Bambi admonished. “Surely you can handle that sort of thing.”

  “Hey, Bamb,” Billy said, deftly switching subjects. “I got a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “When your parents named you Bambi, did they expect you to be a porn star or a stripper?”

  “Billy! That’s so inappropriate.”

  “Just askin’.”

  “I’ll arrange a comped villa at the Cavendish,” Bambi said snippily. “Good-bye.” And she cut him off with a determined click.

  “What’s she look like?” Kev immediately wanted to know, conjuring up a vision of a juicy blonde in hot pants and a nipple-revealing tank.

  “Think about her name, and then imagine the exact opposite,” Billy said. “She’s a dragon lady with teeth that could bite your cock off in one fell swoop. So fuhgedaboudit.”

  “Copy that,” Kev said, shuddering at the graphic image.

  * * *

  Ace had spent time at The Keys with Max on several occasions, which meant he was aware of the routine. There was a reserved underground parking section for the Santangelo/Golden family and their guests, so he drove his truck right to it. The valet parker greeted him like an old friend. After exchanging pleasantries, he grabbed his overnight bag and headed upstairs in a private elevator that deposited him on the Santangelo/Golden floor. There he was met by Betty, the middle-aged concierge. Betty was armed with a list of expected guests. Fortunately, he knew her, and he quickly informed her that he was Max’s birthday surprise, so not a word that he was here.

  Betty nodded agreeably. After Cookie and her obnoxious boyfriend, Ace was a delight, a nice-looking young man, tall and lanky, and always polite.

  “Any idea what time Max is getting here?” he asked.

  “Soon,” Betty replied. “The Stanislopoulos plane landed twenty minutes ago.”

  “The what?”

  “Bobby’s plane.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ace said, suddenly remembering who he was dealing with. Max’s brother had the use of a plane, and Max was obviously on it. “I’ll wait,” he said, groping in his pocket to make sure the box with the present he’d purchased for Max was still there. He’d spent $250 on a gold heart pendant, and he was hoping she’d love it. She’d better; it was the most expensive gift he’d ever bought anyone.

  * * *

  “I’m curious,” Denver said when they were finally settled in Bobby’s suite at The Keys. “What’s your mom’s fascination with Vegas?”

  Bobby moved over to the window and stared out at the staggering view, which never failed to thrill him. “My grandfather on Lucky’s side built one of the first hotels here, way back in the forties,” he explained. “Gino. You’ve met him.”

  “I have?” Denver said, unpacking her bag.

  “Maybe not,” Bobby said, turning back to look at her. “But you will this weekend. He’s some colorful character, my granddad. He used to hang out with Meyer Lansky, Jake the boy, Lucky Luciano—a whole slew of those old-time gangsters. Back in the day, those guys ruled everything, and Gino was right up there. He named Lucky after Lucky Luciano—kind of an homage.”

  Denver stopped what she was doing. “No way.”

  “Yeah. Kinda wild, huh?”

  “I would say so.”

  “Anyway, Gino was in the hotel business, and decades later, when he fled America on a tax evasion thing, Lucky moved right in an’ took over the building of his latest hotel. She was like twenty or something.”

  “That’s quite an achievement.”

  “It sure is. But hey, that’s my mom. Balls of steel.” He chuckled. “Rumor has it she threatened some poor slob in the middle of the night that she’d cut off his dick if he didn’t put up the building costs he’d signed on for.”

  “And did he?”

  “What do you think?”

  Denver was half impressed and half horrified. She’d always admired strong women, but maybe Lucky Santangelo took strength to a new level.

  “What about you, Bobby?” she ventured. “How tough was it when you lost your father?”

  “I was too young to remember much about it.”

  “And was Lucky a good mother? Was she always around?”

  “What’s with all the questions, babe? I feel like I’m on the stand.”

  “I’d just like to know more about you. Is that okay?”

  “Lucky is Lucky. She’s the greatest,” Bobby said, moving toward her. “Anyway, I’m here, and I ain’t doin’ badly, so no more questions an’ let’s get going. You’re in for a big surprise.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Now, if I told you,” he said lightly, “it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

  “Well, if you put it that way.”

  And Denver realized that he’d completely steered her off track. No more Lucky revelations today. Bobby was closing ranks on that conversation.

  * * *

  After Armand left, Jeffrey expected that Lucky would have plenty to say, and quite frankly he wouldn’t have blamed her. Instead she was silent, and the moment he started to apologize she abruptly cut him off.

  “Forget about it,” she said coolly. “We all make mistakes.”

  Although outwardly she appeared calm, inwardly she was seething. Armand Jordan was the kind of man she abhorred—a self-absorbed, egotistical, chauvinistic pig. It infuriated her that Jeffrey had actually put her in the same room with the creep. Perhaps her lawyer was not as smart as she’d thought, or maybe his divorce was addling his brain.

  “Danny,” she said, all business, “inform the desk that I want Armand Jordan out of my hotel before noon. I don’t care how it’s done, but I want him out.”

  Danny snapped to attention. “Yes, Lucky,” he said. “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

  “And Danny, as soon as you’ve done that, get me a full dossier on Armand Jordan.” She turned to Jeffrey. “Something I probably should have seen before the meeting.”

  Jeffrey looked uncomfortable. He knew he’d let Lucky down, and that wasn’t good, considering she was his most important client. “His company is top-rate,” he began to say. “Armand Jordan is on the Forbes list. I wouldn’t bring you—”

  “For my own interest,” Lucky interrupted, not wishing to listen to Jeffrey’s excuses. “I need to know who I’m dealing with. Especially when they threaten me.”

  “Lucky, once again, I’m so sorry—”

  “Time for the board meeting,” she said, her beautiful face expressionless, only her deep black eyes revealing her annoyance. “Let’s go. I don’t intend to keep anyone waiting.”

  Danny shut his laptop and trotted after them, wondering how Lucky was able to keep her cool. Armand might be a chauvinistic billionaire, but if he, Danny, was in Lucky’s place, he would’ve slapped the man’s face, a resounding slap heard for miles.

  Ah yes, Danny thought dreamily. One of those old-fashioned slaps that used to take place when Diva Queens ruled the mov
ies. Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Joan Crawford.

  Danny had rented and avidly watched all their movies; their outfits alone had sent him into a euphoric state.

  “Danny,” Lucky said sharply, turning her head. “Stop following us and go deal with getting that person tossed from my hotel. I want you to personally make sure he leaves the premises, and be sure to tell Jerrod to alert everyone that he is not allowed back. Comprende?”

  “I’m on it,” Danny said, once again jumping to attention. “Although surely you need me at the board meeting?”

  “Send one of the assistants to cover it.”

  “Really?” Danny said, disappointed because he hated missing anything.

  “Yes, really,” Lucky said briskly. “And don’t forget that Lennie is arriving at five. Make sure he knows I’m at the apartment. And once he gets here, we do not expect to be disturbed under any circumstances. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Danny repeated.

  “Tell Bobby and Max we’ll see them for breakfast tomorrow. And organize anything they or their friends might need for tonight. I’m picking up the tab.”

  Danny nodded. He understood. Whenever Lennie reappeared, Lucky carved out alone time with her husband. And that, Danny decided, was the reason they had such a happy and successful marriage.

  Lucky had her priorities straight. Nothing and no one came between her and her man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Armand was burning up. He had never—repeat, never—been spoken to in such a fashion, and by a woman! He was enraged. He felt as if his head was going to explode with sheer fury. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He was sick sick sick with anger.

  The moment they left Lucky’s office he turned on Fouad and began screaming a litany of expletives, as if Fouad were personally responsible for the unfortunate meeting. “Fuck that whore bitch. And fuck you,” Armand yelled, the veins standing out in his forehead. “Motherfucking cunt.”

  Fouad wasn’t quite sure whether the “motherfucking cunt” insult was directed at him or Lucky Santangelo. It didn’t matter. He’d made up his mind about moving on, and as soon as he had all his affairs in order, it would be sayonara to Armand Jordan and everything he represented. He couldn’t wait to return to New York.