Double Lucky

by Jackie Collins

  However, she couldn’t help sneaking a peek at her BlackBerry to see what was going on back in L.A. Taking Friday off was not a career-enhancing move, but Bobby had been so insistent, and since she was moving on to the drug unit, did it really matter? She’d won her final case and avoided her horny boss, and Monday she would start fresh.

  “What are you doing?” Bobby wanted to know, leaning over her shoulder.

  “Just checking on work.”

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “No, what?”

  “Not while we’re on our first vacation.”

  “Bobby,” she reminded him gently, “this is not a vacation, it’s a weekend.”

  “And our first one away together,” he pointed out, kissing her neck.

  “Okay,” she said, clicking her phone off. “Whatever my Lord and Master wants.”

  “Easy!” he laughed. “I’m not that bad.”

  “Well, you are being kind of overbearing.”

  “Thought I was being romantic.”

  “You’re right.” She sighed. “I’ll leave work alone until later.”

  “Later I might have more surprises.”

  “Hmm … something to look forward to?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  * * *

  “I appeared at the Maracanã Stadium in Rio once,” Venus informed Jorge, who was now massaging her feet after their stint in the casino. She’d won $25,000 at blackjack, so she was on a high. “Thousands of people, and little old me,” she reminisced. “It was a fantastic night. Very memorable.”

  “Ah, Maracanã,” Jorge murmured. He spoke more English than Venus thought, and he understood plenty, but he’d decided it was prudent to pretend he had yet to master English. It was also prudent not to mention that he was ten years old when he and some friends had sneaked into the famous Maracanã Stadium and watched her perform. He could still remember the hard-on she’d given him that night.

  Growing up in a two-room shack with seven brothers and sisters, no father, and a mother who lived only for Carnival, Jorge had been forced to take care of himself. At the age of ten he’d started stealing from tourists in Rio, and from fourteen on he’d been robbing and fucking them, picking up a smattering of English along the way. The moment he’d stashed enough money, he’d gotten himself a passport and purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. At least he had ambition.

  Now what? He might be only nineteen (Venus thought he was twenty), but he was smart enough to know that being with this platinum-blond superstar might be his only opportunity to score big.

  He didn’t know what, but this weekend he was determined to do something to cement their connection.

  * * *

  Determined not to feel sorry for herself, Max entered the elevator, which zoomed her upstairs. Harry and Paco had stopped off at the drugstore to pick up God only knew what. Harry was acting totally lovesick; she could hardly stand it.

  Betty was sitting in her usual place. Max gave her a quick hug. “Is Cookie here yet?” she asked.

  Betty nodded, a disapproving glint in her watchful eyes. “Indeed she is. With that new boyfriend of hers.”

  “Oh yes, Frankie,” Max said, with a knowing grin. “Cookie hit the jackpot, right?”

  “Seems too old for her,” Betty remarked. “And smarmy, with a smart mouth.”

  “Hey, we all know Cookie,” Max said, grabbing a handful of M&M’s from Betty’s desk. “This is way better than her dragging random dudes up here every night.”

  “I have never approved of that girl’s behavior,” Betty said, tight-lipped. “She needs discipline. Where are her parents?”

  “You know where they are. We’ve had this conversation before,” Max said. “By the way, be prepared. Harry has a, uh … boyfriend too. They’ll be checking in any minute.”

  Betty’s eyebrows shot up. “A boyfriend?”

  “Oh c’mon, Bets.” Max giggled. “You know Harry’s gay.”

  “He is?” Betty said dryly.

  “Please don’t tease me. It’s almost my birthday and they’ve both got boyfriends, while I’m all alone. Charming isn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” Betty assured her, thinking of the boyfriend all set to surprise her. “You’ll still have a lovely time.”

  “Thanks, Bets,” she said as she headed down the corridor to her suite.

  Slipping her entry card into the door, she walked inside.

  “Hey,” Ace said, jumping up to greet her with a big smile on his face. “Happy birthday, sweet eighteen!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Getting thrown out of The Keys was without doubt the most insulting thing that had ever happened to Armand—an offensive affront to his dignity. When Fouad had informed him that they were being forced to leave, Armand had refused to believe him. In his mind it was not possible that this could happen. But happen it did, and when four burly security men arrived to escort him off the premises, he finally understood that it was for real.

  Armand did not go silently. He threatened every staff member in the vicinity with expulsion the moment he owned the hotel. He had Fouad take down names, and he let everyone know that they would soon all have no jobs. He radiated a dark, cold fury.

  Danny, hovering on the sidelines, was startled by the man’s level of lethal anger. He’d never witnessed such frightening rage.

  Fouad had a limousine waiting downstairs. Once again he had assumed they would head straight to the airport—he’d even left a message for Peggy that they would be picking her up very shortly.

  Armand had other ideas.

  “Do you honestly believe that I would run from here like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs?” Armand said, enraged. “How many times do I have to tell you? Are you brain-dead, Fouad? Do you not listen? Are you a complete fool?”

  Yes, Fouad thought, I am a fool for continuing to put up with your verbal abuse. You contaminate everything you touch.

  “Get me the best they have at the Cavendish,” Armand instructed. “And attempt to listen to me for once, Fouad.” An ominous pause. “We are not leaving Las Vegas until I own The Keys. That whore bitch will not win. I will see her die before she gets the better of me. Do you understand me? I WILL SEE HER DIE.”

  * * *

  Many years ago Peggy had decided that if she did discover who Armand’s real father was, she would never tell her son. Armand considered himself royal born, and she refused to dispel the myth—if indeed it was a myth. If it turned out that he wasn’t the king’s son, the ramifications would be disastrous. And were the king to find out, who knew what he would do? The punishments in Akramshar were harsh, especially toward women. They included the ancient custom of stoning, and long spells in prison for nothing more than disrespecting a male.

  Not that Peggy would ever consider going back, not under any circumstances. She’d made her life in America, and that’s exactly where she was staying. Maybe even in Vegas if she met the right man.

  For a woman in her sixties—however great she looked—the pickings in New York were lackluster. Old men with Viagra hard-ons required women in their thirties, and in a pinch, in their forties. So where did that leave her? In Vegas, with casinos full of rich gamblers who might appreciate an attractive redhead in her prime.

  Well … maybe a tad past her prime, but so what?

  After a leisurely breakfast, she visited the spa, where she allowed herself to be primped and pampered while she wondered how she could get close enough to Gino Santangelo to obtain a DNA sample. She’d watched enough CSI’s on TV to know that determining paternity was not difficult. A scrap of hair, a cigarette stub—and there were labs advertised on the Internet where you could simply mail in your sample. She’d even found one in Vegas, which (for a price) promised twenty-four-hour turnaround service.

  Peggy was excited. She’d always wondered, and now it might be possible to find out.

  “Have you ever heard of a man called Gino Santangelo?” she asked the tall b
runette who was giving her a facial.

  The girl almost choked. “Gino Santangelo is one of the most famous characters in Vegas,” she said, lowering her voice. “His daughter built The Keys. The Santangelos are Vegas royalty.”

  “Shh,” hissed the bleached blonde who was busy giving Peggy a pedicure. “His wife’s over there getting her nails done.”

  “His wife,” Peggy said, her eyes darting across the room. She observed a short woman with a mass of frizzy copper-colored hair and a compact body. The woman was well preserved, but Peggy—an expert at such things—decided she was in her late sixties.

  Mrs. Gino Santangelo. Perhaps this was the opportunity Peggy had been looking for.

  Yes, an opportunity to get closer to the truth, and she was about to take it.

  * * *

  Settled into a private and secluded luxury villa at the Cavendish, Armand continued to rant and rave about how sickened and angry he was at the outcome of his meeting with Lucky Santangelo. That a woman could get away with speaking to him in such a crude and vile way was unthinkable. His skin crawled at the thought. Her words reverberated in his head and filled him with even more hate.

  “In my country she would be stoned to death for her disrespect,” he screamed, pacing up and down. “I am a prince. You hear me, Fouad? A royal man. She is nothing but a whore peasant, and she must be punished!”

  Fouad stared at Armand and realized that he was no longer a man in control. It seemed he had lost any sense of reality. Had Armand honestly believed that just like that he could fly into Vegas and purchase a property such as The Keys? Was he becoming so convinced of his own importance and power that he’d thought it was possible?

  Ever since the incident with Martin Constantine’s wife, Fouad had sensed that there was something basically wrong with Armand. He appeared to be unraveling, caught up in a fantasy power trip of huge proportions. Now he was proclaiming himself a prince—which of course he was, but his title meant nothing in America.

  “You do know,” Armand shouted, fixing Fouad with a manic glare, “that one day I will rule Akramshar. I will be king.”

  “I thought your plan was to stay in America,” Fouad said, shocked by Armand’s announcement.

  “My father will expect me to take over,” Armand said, a feverish look in his eyes. “Do you think I would disappoint him? Because if you think that, you’re an idiot. A useless idiot.” He paused, then added, “Lately, Fouad, I have been thinking I should rid myself of your useless existence.”

  Once again Fouad was shocked. He’d grown up in Akramshar, the son of a palace guard, and he’d heard these slurs many times coming from the king. The word useless was one of the king’s favorite insults. He used it on wives, workers, his children—anyone he felt deserved the wrath of his tongue. He spat it out like a snake’s venom, making it sound worse than any expletive.

  Was Armand turning into his father?

  Was he suffering from delusions of grandeur?

  Did he honestly believe that when King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan died he could become ruler of Akramshar?

  Impossible. The king’s other sons would never allow that to happen. Armand might have been born in Akramshar and lived there for all of eight years, but he had left the land of his birth and become a high-powered American business tycoon. He would never be accepted back. Fouad happened to know that the only reason the king paid Armand so much attention was that through Armand’s various holdings and companies, he was able to filter money for the king, legitimize it. In America they called it laundering.

  “Get me everything you know about Lucky Santangelo,” Armand suddenly ordered. “That file you had. Where is it? Give it to me at once.”

  “Do you mean the file you refused to pay attention to?” Fouad said, unable to resist a small dig.

  “I want it now,” Armand said brusquely. “Immediately.”

  “I will have it sent up.”

  “Disrespectful whore,” Armand muttered. “She will pay dearly for daring to challenge me.”

  Fouad couldn’t quite figure out how Armand had reached the conclusion that Lucky Santangelo had challenged him. She’d merely turned down his offer to buy The Keys. That was it. But obviously she’d triggered something in Armand that had set him on a revengeful path.

  “I should go,” Fouad said evenly. “You need time alone.”

  “No. What I need is a couple of whores while I think about what to do,” Armand raged, his face dark with anger. “Arrange it. I want them here immediately.”

  Was this what things had come to—ordering up prostitutes for Armand’s perverse pleasure?

  No. Enough was enough. Once again he refused to do it.

  Moving over to the desk, he picked up a hotel notepad and wrote down a number.

  “Here,” he said, handing the notepad to Armand. “It’s best if you call yourself.”

  And before Armand could object, he made a swift exit.

  Fouad is a pathetic excuse for a man, Armand thought. Why do I continue to put up with his inadequacies, his American wife and his stupid children?

  Not that he’d ever met Fouad’s children. Truth was, he’d only encountered the wife on two occasions. A blonde from Tennessee, she was boring and bland and not even that pretty. She’d ruined Fouad, turned him into a sheep incapable of functioning properly in the world of business. That’s why the meeting to buy The Keys had failed. Fouad’s wife had cut off his balls, rendering him weak and ineffectual. Lucky Santangelo had sensed weakness and used it against him. Conniving whore.

  Yes, Armand was sure of it. Now it was up to him to make certain the sale happened.

  He paced around the living room of the villa, which was not nearly as luxurious as the Presidential Suite he had occupied at The Keys.

  After a while he laid out several lines of coke and soon did all of it. Fortunately, he always traveled with a full supply—courtesy of his New York dealer, who took care of keeping him well stocked.

  By the time Fouad sent up the information on Lucky Santangelo, Armand felt ready to rule not only Akramshar, but the rest of the world too. He was flying high, angry and resentful. He needed to vent his frustration at not getting what he wanted.

  Picking up the phone, he called Yvonne Le Crane.

  Yvonne was not pleased to hear from him. She did not appreciate her girls being stiffed. If they failed to receive the full amount of money they were due, it meant less commission to tuck into her latest Prada purse—Prada being her current obsession. When Armand Jordan got on the phone and demanded more girls, she was less than friendly, especially since a certain important person in Vegas had been asking questions about him.

  “You didn’t pay my girls everything they were due,” she accused.

  “The two women whom I did not pay extra were inexperienced and unprofessional,” Armand stated coldly. “It does not reflect well on your services.”

  “My services are the best in Vegas,” Yvonne retorted, quite insulted. “My girls are clean, beautiful, and honest.”

  “Your girls are filthy whores,” Armand sneered.

  “If that’s what you think, then I suggest we cease doing business and end this conversation.”

  “No. We will not end it,” Armand said sharply, his anger building as he leaned over the coffee table to snort another line of coke. “You will send me two girls. Big breasts. Thirty thousand. Cash. Have them here at six. I am now at the Cavendish.”

  Yvonne was silent for a moment. She didn’t trust Armand Jordan, and even though she’d never met him, there was something off about him, something she didn’t like. Several of the girls she’d sent to him before had complained that he was a crass pervert, and for them to complain was unusual.

  However, it occurred to her that she didn’t have to send him her girls. There were other places she could obtain talent. Armand Jordan was a sicko; he wouldn’t know the difference, since all he chose to do was debase and humiliate them, so what the hell? Above all else, she was a businesswoma
n, and $30,000 was a tempting amount of cash.

  Yes, Yvonne decided, she would send Armand Jordan exactly the type of girls he deserved.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  After the board meeting, Lucky met with Danny, who filled her in on Armand’s furious exit. “What a misogynistic asshole!” she exclaimed. “He’s demented. A crazy man. Who is he, anyway?”

  Danny had printed out everything he could find about Jordan Developments, but as Lucky flicked through the thick file, she discovered there were no personal details about Armand at all. Wikipedia supplied scant information; there was nothing about where he was born, just a brief mention that he’d come to America at the age of eight, the schools and college he attended, and that his socialite mother, Peggy, had remarried an investment banker—since deceased. Who was her first husband? Obviously Armand’s father. There was no mention of Armand having a wife or children or any other family members.

  It seemed Armand Jordan only existed as the CEO of Jordan Developments, along with several other subsidiary companies.

  Because of his far-fetched threat about some kind of future battle, Lucky felt she should find out more about him.

  Danny clicked onto various gossip sites and came up with a few photos of Armand at New York City social events—always with a different woman on his arm.

  While Danny was doing that, Lucky went straight to the WireImage site on her Mac and typed in Armand Jordan, and up he popped—once again photographed with a series of attractive young women.

  The man was a serial dater, although his dates were never named. Odd. A couple of B-list actresses appeared in photos, but they only accompanied him to one event each.

  Studying the photos of the girls with no names, Lucky figured they had to be high-class call girls or professional escorts. She recognized the look—sleek, expensive, and bland.

  Sure enough, when Danny checked out one of the most exclusive and private escort sites—with a $10,000 entry fee, which Lucky agreed he could put on her credit card—they came across photos of several of the girls Armand had been seen with.