Drop Dead Beautiful

by Jackie Collins

  “Excuse me?” Renee said. “Why do you think that?”

  “I know you imagine it’ll take business away from us,” Susie said. “But you’re wrong. The Keys being so near to us will enhance our hotel. You’ll see. It’s all about synergy. We’re the two classiest hotels on the Strip, and it’ll all work out. I’m happy they’re opening, and I also think Lucky can be a good friend to us.”

  Susie was right. Susie was always right.

  Renee’s mind began ticking. Yes, now she was sure she had to get Anthony Bonar out of their lives once and for all.

  Irma was in turmoil. How was she supposed to make sense of the situation she found herself in? It was all so unbelievably horrifying.

  Her husband was a cruel and repugnant man, a vindictive inhuman monster. The very thought of what he’d done to Luis would haunt her forever, and worst of all, she was responsible, for it was she who’d lured Luis into her bedroom the first time, and if she hadn’t done so, none of this would have happened.

  Yes, the sad truth was that she was to blame.

  Now she was trapped with Anthony, who’d informed her that she was not allowed to speak to anyone or go anywhere without his permission. “You’re gonna do exactly what I say,” he’d told her. “An’ doncha open your fuckin’ mouth to anyone, or your parents gonna feel the heat. Understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Yes, she understood, and she had no doubt his threats were authentic. After the things she’d witnessed she was genuinely frightened. Anthony was not a bluffer—her psychotic husband was capable of anything. He’d proved that.

  “Tonight we’re goin’ to a party, so go buy a dress an’ be prepared t’look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself,” Anthony announced, strolling into the bedroom where he’d made sure she was a prisoner. He’d instructed The Grill to remove the phones and make certain any doors leading outside were locked. There was no escape.

  “How can I go shopping?” she cried out. “After everything you’ve done, how can you expect me to do that?”

  “Who gives a shit?” he snarled. “‘S long as you’re ready at six. Buy a decent dress, an’ wear your new earrings.”

  She was forced to visit the shopping mall with The Grill, who stood guard outside a fitting room while she reluctantly chose a plain black dress to wear.

  It was all so surreal. Here she was in Las Vegas buying a dress, while back in Mexico City her lover had no doubt bled to death.

  Poor Luis. Poor dear, sweet Luis. She remembered his gentle touch and suddenly she was overcome with grief. She sank to the floor of the fitting room and began quietly weeping.

  After a while she pulled herself together. Above all else, Anthony had to be punished for his sins.

  There must be a way, and she was determined to find it. After arranging invitations to the opening reception at the Keys, Anthony had gone ahead and bought tickets for the concert event, although he wasn’t sure if he’d stay around that long. Emmanuelle had informed him she was desperate to see Venus perform. Little did she know that there would be a lot more to observe than an aging blond singer, although the real action would take place to coincide with the fireworks display.

  He decided to stay long enough to watch the fun begin, then he’d gather his entourage and get the hell out. A timely exit was one of the advantages of having his own plane.

  According to Renee, everything was in place, and by God, she’d better be right. He was expecting results. They were spending a million bucks to make sure the Keys burned to the ground. Tucker Bond was expensive, but according to his reputation he never failed.

  Destroying the Keys and making Grandma happy was worth every dollar. Anthony did not regret one red cent.

  Not that he planned on paying Renee back—it was her responsibility. She could whistle for him to come up with his half.

  Emmanuelle danced happily around the bungalow, quite taken with the Elton John-style white piano, indoor Jacuzzi, and luxury furnishings. Boarding the plane in Miami, she’d been startled to notice Anthony’s wife huddled in one of the seats. “What’s she doing here?” she’d whispered to Anthony, thinking that if he planned on a cozy threesome, she was a definite no.

  “Take no notice of Irma,” Anthony had said. “We got an understanding. Ignore her.”

  So Emmanuelle had done exactly that, playing up to Anthony’s grandmother, who was quite a colorful character with her nonstop smoking, incessant coffee drinking, and raspy voice.

  As soon as Francesca spotted Emmanuelle, she’d taken Anthony to one side. “Why you do this?” she’d demanded, spoiling for an argument. “Why both women here?”

  “One’s my wife, one’s my mistress,” Anthony had explained. “That’s the Italian way, right, Grandma?”

  “You leave those two together, they’ll tear each other to pieces,” Francesca had muttered.

  “I promise you Irma’s gonna do nothin’. She knows t’keep her mouth shut an’ stay in her place.”

  “You and Irma fighting?” Francesca demanded, narrowing her eyes.

  “No fight.”

  “You bloody sure, Anthony?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  Detective Franklin had cultivated quite a few spies at the Cavendish, and it wasn’t long before one of them reported that Anthony Bonar was back in town. This was the news she’d been waiting for. She got in her car and drove straight to the hotel.

  For the past few days she’d been contemplating a trip to Miami, where it seemed Anthony Bonar spent most of his time. Now that he was actually back in Vegas he’d saved her the trouble. She had more than a strong hunch that Anthony Bonar knew a lot more about Tasmin’s disappearance than he was saying. And Detective Franklin was famous around the department for hunches that usually paid off.

  She’d checked Anthony Bonar out. He’d been arrested once many years ago when he was a teenager on a possession-of-drugs charge. A lawyer had sprung him within twenty-four hours, and he’d managed to stay out of jail ever since, although he’d certainly been investigated many times. He was known to be involved in major drug trade activities, but the FBI had never been able to find enough evidence to put him away.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Bonar,” she informed the desk clerk at reception.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the clerk asked.

  “No, I do not,” Diane Franklin said, flashing her badge. “But somehow I imagine this is appointment enough.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re on your way.”

  Tucker Bond worked with two assistants, both female, both adept at whatever job he assigned them. He’d found that women were easier to control than men, and attractive women blended in. They were also a great deal more trustworthy and loyal.

  These two had worked for him for more than ten years. They did whatever he told them to do, and no arguments. On this job he was paying them a hundred grand each. Not bad for a few hours’ work.

  Not bad at all.

  “Fuck!” Anthony steamed. The last thing he needed was a small-town detective questioning him about Tasmin Garland. He’d answered a shitload of questions over the phone, so what was this about, and why hadn’t Renee warned him?

  Bitch! They were all bitches. Especially his cheating whore wife, whose fate he had all planned. Watching her boyfriend lose his manhood in front of her was not punishment enough. Oh no. He had more delights in store for her.

  Tonight she’d be humiliated.

  Tomorrow she’d be shipped off to Bolivia where he’d made arrangements for her to be placed in a facility that craved blond American whores. She’d asked for it. Any woman who screwed another man in the marital bed was asking for it.

  If Irma wanted to fuck around, who was he to stop her?

  Detective Franklin was full of more dumb questions. Anthony resented her intrusion into his life. Bad enough he had to deal with a detective, but a black female one at that. Shit! What was the fuckin’ world coming to?

  He answered her questions fast and hustled her out in re
cord time.

  The bitch would never get anything on him.

  Chapter 81

  The opening of the Keys was a much coveted event. Celebrities were jetting in from all over the world, delighted that they’d been invited. Lucky Santangelo and Lennie Golden were a power couple with friends across the globe, and everyone wanted to be there to help them celebrate.

  The world press were also assembling. Journalists, camera crews, photographers. ET, Access Hollywood, Extra, E! News—they were all there to cover the event.

  Security was a top priority—every member of the press had to display a laminated name tag and a red-carpet pass.

  Henry Whitfield-Simmons had acquired both. With money, anything was possible.

  Detective Franklin returned to the precinct more convinced than ever that Anthony Bonar had something to do with Tasmin’s disappearance. Now that she’d actually met the man face-to-face he struck her as a lying scumbag in an expensive suit. She’d come across his type before. Anthony Bonar was the kind of man who imagined money could buy him anything and anybody. He was involved with Tasmin’s disappearance, she would bet her life on it. And as for Renee Falcon, she knew a lot more than she was saying, that was for sure. Her girlfriend had given her away. Her girlfriend had more or less accused Anthony of having something to do with Tasmin’s disappearance.

  The way Diane Franklin saw it, Renee had fixed Anthony Bonar up on a date with Tasmin and something had gone horribly wrong.

  But what? That was the big question.

  “What do you think?” Lucky asked, emerging from her dressing room in a floor-length scarlet Versace backless gown, Jimmy Choo stilettos, diamond earrings, and Neil Lane black-and-white Art Deco diamond bracelets decorating both wrists.

  Lennie whistled as he checked out his wife. “I swear I’ve never seen you look so staggeringly beautiful,” he exclaimed. “You’re incredible.”

  “I mean what do you think of my dress?” she said modestly.

  “It’s not the dress I’m concerned with, it’s the body underneath.”

  “Lennie!” she said, smiling. “Be serious.”

  “The dress is a smash.”

  “Not too revealing?” she asked, twirling for him.

  “If I had my way you’d be hidden under a burka. I don’t enjoy other men ogling my woman.”

  “I’m your woman, am I?” she teased.

  “Now and forever.”

  “Good, ’cause that’s the way I like it.”

  “Can I fix you a drink?” he asked.

  “How about a martini?” she said, walking out onto the spacious terrace overlooking the sparkling lights of the city.

  “Coming right up.”

  As she stood gazing out at the spectacular view, her thoughts drifted back to the opening of the Magiriano, her first Vegas hotel. This time it was better, because this time she had Lennie and her family beside her.

  It was exciting. More exciting than owning and running a major movie studio. More exciting than all the other businesses she’d been involved with.

  Yes. The Keys was her ultimate prize.

  She often wondered why she felt such close ties to Vegas, although deep down she knew why. It was the place it had all begun for her when she’d taken over from Gino and finished building the Magiriano. It was the place where she’d become a woman of substance, a woman capable of doing anything.

  Now here she was, opening her dream hotel, and everything was perfect.

  Well… almost…

  Something was bothering her. Something that she’d dismissed over the past few weeks as a frivolous invitation to a party or event. Bobby had been concerned, and maybe rightfully so, because over the last twenty-four hours she’d received two more handwritten hand-delivered notes, similar to the ones she’d received in L.A. Only now, instead of saying Drop Dead Beautiful, the word Beautiful had been replaced with Bitch.

  Drop Dead Bitch. And the word Bitch was scrawled in what looked like blood.

  This was no invitation. This was a threat.

  And since Lucky was not the kind of woman to be intimidated, she’d decided to deal with it after the opening.

  Nothing was about to spoil her night of triumph.

  Emmanuelle appeared in the living room of their bungalow wearing a shiny gold sequin number, short to show off her legs, low-cut to show off her tits, and dipping at the back to show off the beginning of her ass crack. Her blond hair was piled high, and her lips were pouty and full. Francesca informed Anthony in a hoarse stage whisper that his mistress resembled a street hooker. Anthony didn’t care, Francesca had no idea what girls looked like today, and as far as he was concerned, Emmanuelle was every man’s walking wet dream, a cover-girl fantasy in the flesh.

  “Irma!” Anthony yelled, prowling around the living room. “Get your ass out here.”

  Irma appeared from the bedroom. She was twelve years older than Emmanuelle and tonight she looked it. Though she’d once been a glowing beauty queen, Anthony had managed to turn her into a tense and unhappy woman wearing a black dress and the diamond drop earrings he’d insisted she put on.

  She refused to even glance at Emmanuelle, which suited Emmanuelle, because she’d already decided that the only way to deal with the wife situation was to ignore her. If Anthony was playing games it was all right with her, as long as she wasn’t involved.

  “Take off your earrings,” Anthony commanded his wife. “Take ’em off an’ give ’em to Emmanuelle.”

  Irma stared at her husband, unbridled hatred in her eyes.

  “Take ’em off,” Anthony repeated, “before I rip ’em off your fuckin’ ears.”

  Irma reached up and removed her diamond drop earrings.

  “Give ’em to Emmanuelle,” Anthony instructed, enjoying this little scene. “They’re hers now.”

  “You think I care?” Irma said, through clenched teeth. “You think I give a damn?”

  “Shut the fuck up an’ hand ’em over,” Anthony said, annoyed that she still had some fight left in her.

  Irma took off the earrings and threw them on the floor, infuriating Anthony even more.

  He jumped forward and slapped his wife across the face, his pinky ring cutting into the delicate skin on her cheek, drawing blood.

  Fortunately, Francesca chose that moment to walk back into the room. Her flinty eyes took in the scene, and she began screaming at her grandson in Italian.

  Anthony glared at her, but he backed off and walked over to the bar where he poured himself a hefty tumbler of Scotch.

  Emmanuelle picked up the earrings from the floor—she wasn’t allowing them to go to waste—while Irma retreated to the bedroom.

  Anthony downed his drink and stared at his blond mistress as she put on the earrings and paraded in front of him.

  On Emmanuelle they looked fake. Stupid, fake baubles, like her stupid, fake tits.

  Sometimes everything wasn’t enough.

  “Can you believe she put Ace on a different floor?” Max complained. “It’s like she totally doesn’t trust me.”

  “Wise woman, your mom,” Cookie said, rolling her eyes as they both stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying gloss and mascara and gold shimmer and all other kinds of makeup enhancements, readying themselves for the night ahead.

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?” Max asked, smudging black eyeliner to give her eyes a smoky look.

  “I’m on the side of anyone who can find me a hottie of my own tonight,” Cookie replied, picking up the curling tongs and attacking her hair.

  “There should be plenty around,” Max remarked. “She’s got most of young Hollywood putting in an appearance. I took a peek at the list.”

  “You did?” Cookie said, trying not to appear too excited. “Any sexy young Will Smiths on it? He’s sooo hot for an old dude.”

  “Not my type.”

  “Course he isn’t,” Cookie grumbled. “You’ve got your own personal hottie stashed in a room he’s not sharing with Harry. Man, you’
re gonna have a wicked time!”

  “I can only hope,” Max said, applying blusher. “Thing is, I’m not so sure he’s into me, he kinda thinks I’m too young.”

  “You gotta play it, girl,” Cookie advised. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”

  “Kinda. Sorta.”

  Cookie piled on the lip gloss. “What did Lucky say about him?”