Anthony tossed the phone to The Grill, a move not lost on the blonde, who pretended not to notice.
“Straight to the hotel, Mr. Bonar?” she inquired, holding open the door.
“Yeah,” he said, climbing in the back. “An’ no conversation.”
The Cavendish was a small—by Vegas standards— boutique membership-only luxury hotel catering to extreme high rollers, sports and movie stars, plus high-powered moguls and executives. Very few of the general public were allowed in. The gambling was exclusive, as was the hotel, which had a reputation for supplying all services a guest required. “The best of everything” was the hotel’s motto, and that included any known drug, and the highest-priced call girls in the city. Renee ran a tight operation, with major security all around.
Renee herself was standing in the cool marble lobby of her hotel waiting to greet him. Every time he saw her, Anthony couldn’t help marveling at the woman’s transformation. When he’d first met her Renee had been Oscar Esposito’s American trophy wife, a curvaceous former showgirl with teased blond hair, long legs, and large breasts. Definitely fuckable. Definitely a babe. Now she weighed well over two hundred pounds, wore her hair in a severely cropped dark brown bob, and her implants were long gone. Renee was a different woman. A tough dyke who’d carved a niche for herself in Vegas as a canny businesswoman with a life partner who was even richer than her. All she and Anthony had between them now was business, and that’s the way it suited both of them.
“Anthony,” Renee greeted. “My favorite bad boy.”
“Renee,” Anthony responded. “My favorite dyke.”
Renee had stones, an admirable quality in a woman, although Anthony wasn’t too sure about the lesbian thing. Surely she missed cock?
“Smooth flight?” Renee inquired.
“Not bad,” Anthony replied, his eyes flicking around the lobby, checking things out.
“I’ve put you in Bungalow One. I thought we’d meet for dinner, Susie’s excited to see you.”
“I ain’t here to socialize, Renee,” he reminded her gruffly. “I’m here to make certain everythin’s in place.”
“I can assure you it is,” Renee replied, irritated that he would doubt her. “You told me to hire Tucker Bond, and I did. We’re paying for the best, Anthony. Half up front, and the rest when the job is done.”
“I don’t want no fuckups,” Anthony growled.
“I don’t allow for fuckups,” Renee responded.
“Yeah?”
“I’m as concerned as you are,” she said, annoyed that Anthony had a way of speaking down to her that she did not appreciate.
Once Anthony was settled into the luxurious bungalow with its own private swimming pool and a bar stocked with the finest brands of liquor and wine, he placed another call to Carlita.
This time his sexy Italian mistress picked up.
“Where the fuck ya bin?” he demanded, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table.
She made up some excuse about visiting a sick relative.
“So sick ya couldn’t pick up ya fuckin’ cell?” Anthony said, frowning.
Once again Carlita had an answer, telling him that her phone had a low battery or some such shit.
He said nothing. He was pleasant, affectionate even, although he had a strong gut feeling that the douche bag was cheating on him.
As soon as he put the phone down, he called one of his minions in New York and issued an order to have Carlita followed. “Whatever she’s doin’, I wanna know ’bout it,” he instructed. “An’ if you find her doin’ anythin’ she shouldn’t, get me photos, proof. Do whatever you gotta do t’bring me the goods.”
If she was innocent of screwing around on him, nothing lost.
And if the puttana was guilty …
Well, if she was guilty, it was her funeral.
Irma’s second session with Luis was all she had hoped for and more. It was late afternoon, she’d sent the housekeeper out, the old gardener was still away, and the guards were stationed at the front of the house with Anthony’s two ferocious Dobermans.
“I need you to look at my indoor plants. Follow me,” she’d informed Luis, who still hadn’t understood a word she’d said, although he’d certainly understood what “Follow me” meant.
As soon as they’d reached the privacy of her bedroom, she’d locked the door behind them. Luis hadn’t hesitated. He’d ripped the clothes from her body with feverish haste, then he’d begun divesting his own garments as fast as he could get them off.
Words were not spoken.
Words were not needed.
Once she was naked, he’d leaned her back against the wall, spread-eagling her legs.
Propped against the wall with her legs apart, she’d felt exposed, vulnerable, and unbelievably sexually excited.
Luis had stroked her nipples, fingered her crotch, then dropped to his knees and started going down on her, his tongue forcing its way through her wiry bush of pubic hair, darting into her most secret place—a place Anthony had never visited with his tongue.
After a few minutes of indescribable ecstasy, she’d shuddered to an earth-shattering climax, moaning with passion as Luis stood up. He’d then gathered her into his strong arms and carried her over to the bed, whereupon he’d laid her down, once more spread her legs, and mounted her, slowly and surely moving back and forth inside her.
Words were still not spoken.
Words were still not needed.
For once, Irma had been totally satisfied.
Being married to a corrupt politician had taught Renee the ways of the world—the world that Anthony and his business associates inhabited. She knew how to please the men she had to deal with, and not in a sexual way. Renee had turned herself into one of the boys—a tough broad who ran a tight operation and could dole out punishment with the best of them.
A few months after opening the Cavendish, Renee had caught one of her dealers cheating. Two days later his bullet-riddled body had turned up in a used-car lot. Renee had wanted his body to be found. The message was clear enough: Don’t think you can fuck with me simply because I’m a woman.
The message worked until an L.A.-based madam decided to have a few of her best girls work the high rollers at the Cavendish. The madam moved them in big time under the guise of actresses and models, but Renee soon caught on. She had invitations printed inviting half a dozen of the girls to a very exclusive lingerie party given by a Saudi prince. She also put the word out that each girl who attended would receive a large cash bonus.
Saudi prince and cash bonus were the four key words. The girls arrived wearing nothing much at all. At the door of the penthouse suite where the party was to take place, they were relieved of their purses as a security measure.
While the girls—clad in nothing more than revealing underwear—waited in the plush suite for the Arab prince to appear, Renee had her people visit all their rooms and gather together every item of the girls’ expensive clothes and accessories. When this was done, Renee supervised a huge bonfire in the parking lot, and the girls were herded together and forced to watch as everything they’d arrived in Vegas with was burned—including the contents of their purses.
After the bonfire ceremony they were driven into the desert and left there half naked with no money, no airline tickets, no cell phones—nothing.
Somehow or other they all made it back to L.A. And sure enough, their madam got the message.
Nobody sued.
Nobody came back.
Point made.
Since that time Renee had dealt with several other employees who had caused her trouble. She was relentless when it came to protecting her territory, which was why she’d agreed with Anthony when he’d come up with his plan to destroy the Keys. He was right, the new hotel complex was a direct threat to the Cavendish, especially as the building was so close. The Keys would be targeting all of the Cavendish’s best customers, and as the building progressed, Renee was just as determined as Anthony to do some
thing about it.
Anthony had come up with the idea of hiring Tucker Bond to take care of their problem, and Renee had put it together, speaking to the man herself.
It was an expensive undertaking, but Anthony was splitting the cost, and he’d assured her it would be worth it to get rid of their direct competition.
The Keys project opening in Vegas was bad business for everyone. That’s all there was to it.
Chapter 17
“Billy Melina,” the female journalist singsonged in a raspy voice. “Billy Melina in the flesh.”
Florence Harbinger was fiftyish, fat, and frumpy with a digital recorder clutched in one hand and a verging-on-sarcastic attitude.
Instinctively Billy knew he’d have to work hard to win this one over. Female journalists. A breed unto themselves. They needed care and attention, otherwise they’d destroy you in print. Billy had learned the hard way.
Rule number one: Compliment.
Rule number two: Flirt.
Rule number three: Ask about their family.
Rule number four: More flirting and make it stick.
Florence Harbinger had a reputation. She ate actors for breakfast and spit ’em out all over the pages of the high-profile magazine she worked for. And because the magazine was so high profile, every publicist in town was hot to get their star clients on the cover and getting the cover meant sitting down with the lovely Florence. Billy was so not into it.
Where was Janey when he needed her? His so-called publicist was a total flake. If she didn’t put in an appearance in the next five minutes, he was definitely firing her skinny ass.
“Billy, Billy, Billy,” Florence repeated, chanting his name. “So tell me, dear, how’s it working out with you and the older woman? Is it difficult? Are we having fun? Or do you think being with the multitalented Venus diminishes your fame?”
Oh yeah, this was going to be a bumpy ride. Grin and flirt with the dried-up old hag who probably hadn’t gotten laid in years. Give her a taste of the old hick-seed charm he’d possessed when he’d first hit Hollywood.
“You know, Florence,” he said, speaking slowly, “I never thought of that.” As he spoke he gave her the famous Billy Melina blue-eyed stare. Kev called it the “panties off” stare, hard for any female young or old to resist. “By the way, have you lost weight? You’re lookin’ very good,” Billy continued.
Florence was too old and seasoned to fall for it completely, but her attitude toward him noticeably softened, and by the time Janey arrived, the interview was well on course.
Janey, a sallow-faced girl with wispy yellow hair and an out-of-control overbite, allowed the interview to run over, which infuriated Billy. How many times had he told her that if a journalist couldn’t get what they wanted in an hour, it was over?
Billy was incensed, trapped, and pissed off. This wasn’t right. He was talking too much and probably saying things he shouldn’t, and dumb Janey was hanging in the kitchen with Kev as if he, Billy, was perfectly fine with two freaking hours of interrogation. SHIT!
Finally his cell rang and he took the opportunity to make a quick escape. “Gotta take this,” he informed Florence, who looked like she was all set for another two hours of scintillating conversation. “I’ll be right back.”
He raced into the kitchen and blasted Janey, who managed to look forlorn and hard-done-by—as if he was the one at fault.
“Two minutes,” he hissed. “Two more freakin’ minutes, then you come in and break it up.”
“HELLOOO.” Whoever was on his cell was yelling for attention.
“Sorry,” he said, realizing it was Venus.
“What is going on?” Venus wanted to know.
“Oh, hey, it’s nothing,” he said vaguely. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Why not now?”
“Uh … I gotta call you back.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
Another interrogator. What was it with women and their questions?
“I’m in the middle of an interview, so I’ll—”
“Who with?”
“Some magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“Really, babe, I gotta call you back.”
“Fine,” she said in her best You’re an asshole and I hate you voice. “You do that.”
Oh crap. Now he had Venus on his case and that wasn’t a good thing.
“Billy,” Florence called out from the living room. “Where are you, dear? I need to verify a couple of facts.”
He was not having a great day.
Venus clicked off her cell and frowned. What was up with Billy? He wasn’t himself, he was edgy, and—dare she even think it?—distant.
Oh God, he was distant. Did that mean he was having second thoughts about their relationship? Did distant mean he was looking for an out?
This was ridiculous. They’d been together almost a year, and as far as she was concerned they were blissfully happy. Well … about as blissfully happy as two movie stars can be considering their every move was dogged by the paparazzi, not to mention the false rumors that appeared in print or on the Internet every single day. She couldn’t count how many times she was supposedly pregnant, or how many times they’d secretly gotten married, or how many times they’d broken up. All lies. All hurtful. All damaging to their relationship.
Venus sighed as she realized she’d done something extremely foolish. She’d fallen in love with Billy, and how dumb was that? Now she was experiencing all the pangs of teenage rejection, because surely if he didn’t have time to talk to her—that was rejection?
Dammit! Love was a pain in the ass. Love made you weak and vulnerable and open to getting hurt. This was not her M.O. at all. Venus was strong and invincible and an icon. That’s why her fans loved her so much. Now she’d gone and fallen in love with a boy—not a man like Cooper, a boy—a movie star boy who however hard he worked would never be as famous as she was.
Or as rich.
And yet … it didn’t matter to her, she was cool with it.
But if he rejected her, dumped her …
No, it simply couldn’t happen.
Stop being needy, she told herself. Everything’s fine. Billy loves you. He tells you all the time.
Billy Melina. Who would’ve ever thought he’d be the one when he’d walked into Alex Woods’s office eight years ago? She certainly hadn’t. All she’d seen then was an apprehensive, fidgety twenty-year-old boy who, when he’d read a scene with her, had exhibited a fierce and endearing talent.
She’d kind of steered him through his first important role, and he’d given a dynamic performance, launching a highly successful career.
They’d become friends. She was married to Cooper and had a small child. Billy was on the road to stardom with a pretty new girl on his arm—or in his bed—every other day. Occasionally they spoke on the phone, or ran into each other at big events such as superagent Ed Limato’s Oscar party or one of the endless award ceremonies.
When Billy made the cover of People magazine as “The Sexiest Man Alive,” she’d sent him a life-sized inflatable doll with a funny note attached. And when she’d won two Emmys, a People’s Choice Award, and three Grammys all in one year, he’d sent her a Harry Winston diamond star pendant with a sweet letter praising her achievements.
After that they’d started meeting for lunch on a regular basis. She’d teased him about his parade of nubile girlfriends; he’d listened when she’d found herself confiding her marital woes.
He was understanding and an excellent listener.
When she finally left Cooper, Billy was there to hold her hand and help her through it.
One memorable night their friendship developed into a full-blown love affair. She hadn’t planned it, hadn’t wanted it, but somehow it was inevitable.
The gossip rags went into overdrive. Venus and Billy Melina—what a tabloid-headline-making duo! It was all too irresistible.
Now they’d been together almost a year, but she wasn’t sure how
it was going. She knew she should be happy— Billy hadn’t said anything or done anything that would make her feel otherwise—but deep down she had a nagging feeling that something was amiss, and one of the keys of Venus’s huge success had been to always follow her instincts.
What were her instincts telling her now?
She wasn’t sure. She didn’t know.
But hey, she had to believe it would all work out in the end. Everything always did.
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