Big brother Bobby was her role model – Bobby, who had escaped and made his own way. He was definitely her inspiration, and she adored him. Although now he had a permanent girlfriend, Denver Jones, and much as she reluctantly admired Denver, a Deputy D.A., she missed having Bobby all to herself when he was in L.A.
‘Got it,’ Max said at last. ‘Whyn’t we hit the Chateau for dinner? There’s always something going on there.’
‘S’long as I don’t bump into my old man,’ Cookie said, wrinkling her nose. ‘He’s got himself another dumbass girlfriend, an’ I think she stays at the Chateau when she’s in town.’
‘What’s the deal with this one?’ Max asked.
‘English, complete with uptight accent and a bug up her ever so tight British ass,’ Cookie said, making a disgusted face. ‘She thinks she’s like the second coming of Keira Knightley. As if.’
‘Your old man sure covers the waterfront,’ Harry remarked, pulling up the collar of his long Goth-like coat.
‘Tell me about it,’ Cookie said with a weary sigh. ‘I’ve had more almost step-moms than you’ve had filthy thoughts about Chace Crawford!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Max said, interrupting them. She was into making fast decisions, not screwing around and vacillating about what to do. ‘We could check out a new club that opened a couple of weeks ago. River. I’m sure we can get in.’
‘Let’s do it,’ Cookie said, fiddling with the dark chocolate-brown dreadlocks that framed her exceptionally pretty face.
‘D’you think Chace Crawford’ll be there?’ Harry asked hopefully.
Max threw him a look. ‘Calm down,’ she said. ‘Surely you know? Chace Crawford is so into girls.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Harry muttered. ‘But I know better.’
* * *
‘Lucky has invited us to Vegas next weekend,’ Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos said, stretching his six foot three frame on Denver Jones’s shabby chic couch. ‘She’s planning a party for my sister Max’s eighteenth birthday, one of her big family events.’
Denver regarded her boyfriend of several months with slight trepidation. Oh, man, the longish black hair, dark-as-night eyes, Greek nose, and strong jawline got her every time. If only he wasn’t so damn handsome. If only she hadn’t harboured a crush on him since high school. If only he wasn’t such a fantastic lover with all the right moves.
‘Your mom intimidates me,’ she said at last, stroking the belly of her dog, Amy Winehouse, who lay on its back making happy sounds. Amy was a mixed breed that Denver and her ex, Josh, had found wandering on Venice Beach. They’d named the dog Amy Winehouse because of its low throaty growl. Plus the fabulous Miz Winehouse was one of Denver’s favourite singers.
Bobby laughed – he had a fantastic laugh. Naturally. ‘C’mon,’ he chided. ‘I’m sure Lucky thinks you’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me.’
Denver raised an eyebrow. ‘Thing?’ she said coolly.
‘Y’know what I mean.’
‘The problem is,’ Denver said, desperately searching for a suitable excuse, ‘I’m moving over to the Drug Unit next week, so there’s a ton of stuff I feel I should research.’
‘You’ll bring your laptop – that way you can do all the research you want. It’s a forty-eight-hour trip, sweetheart. I’m calling for the plane’.
She hated it when Bobby said things like ‘I’m calling for the plane.’ It was so elitist, so exactly who she wasn’t. Some girls might get off on all the luxury, but private planes, lavish parties, and hanging with Bobby’s illustrious family was not for her. Plus she wasn’t that fond of Vegas, and she hadn’t told Bobby – but she hated spending time at his ultra-happening club, Mood. She especially hated the way women fawned all over him, and flirted outrageously, ignoring her as if she didn’t even exist.
The truth was that she loved Bobby. But she didn’t love the trappings that came with him.
Bobby stretched again and yawned. ‘Whaddya say?’
‘I say I’ll think about it.’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, reaching up to pull her down on the couch beside him.
She acquiesced. It was early evening and they had no plans, so what was wrong with relaxing for the moment?
They’d been seeing each other on and off for the past three months. The on was when Bobby was in L.A. The off was when he had to spend time at his two clubs. Mood in Vegas, and Mood in New York. The on was the best of times. The off was missing him and wondering what he was doing, and trying to have some decent phone sex which left them both in a hysterical state of laughter.
Neither of them had uttered the L word. Although they had conducted the talk about being exclusive.
Both of them were wary about getting too involved. Secretly they couldn’t wait. But playing it semi-cool seemed to be the name of the game they were currently into.
Bobby began stroking her hair. Denver felt good about her hair; it was long and thick, chestnut brown with natural golden highlights. She knew that her hair was one of her best assets, along with her widely spaced hazel eyes and full lips. If she lived in any other big city she’d be considered a ten. In L.A. she felt she barely made it as a seven.
She was wrong.
Bobby’s hands moved down to her breasts, and with a quick move under her T-shirt he released her bra and began playing with her nipples. Oh yes, unusual for L.A., her breasts were actually real.
Sighing with anticipation, she leaned into him. It made no difference that they’d already made love in the morning. Desire was desire, and they were both in the mood.
Sometimes she couldn’t help wondering how long it would last. Her previous serious boyfriend, Josh, had been a pretty decent lover for the first six months of their three-year relationship, then after that it was a total slump.
‘What’re you thinking?’ Bobby whispered in her ear, giving her a little tongue action at the same time.
‘That’s such a girly question,’ she murmured, fiddling with the zipper on his jeans.
‘You calling me a girl?’ he asked, mock serious.
‘You do have some female tendencies,’ she teased.
‘Like what?’ he responded, challenging her to come up with something.
‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, dragging his jeans down, delighted to find that he wasn’t wearing underwear. ‘You have soft lips . . .’
‘All the better to kiss you with . . .’ And with one swift movement he flipped her so she was trapped beneath him. ‘Soft lips and a hard cock,’ he joked. ‘How female is that?’
‘Bobby!’ she exclaimed.
Then the banter stopped and the passion began. He had a way of making love to her that forced her to lose every inhibition she’d ever possessed. One moment he was slowly caressing her, the next he was all hard driving action. The combination drove her nuts. She wanted more and more and more . . .
After it was over, they were spent, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sleepy and content.
Denver often wished that those precious times would last for ever. Just the two of them. No outside world to interfere.
But the outside world was a big presence, and they both lived in it. Tomorrow Bobby was driving to Vegas before flying to New York for a few meetings. And she had her job as a Deputy D.A. to attend to, which right now was especially exciting and challenging since she was transferring to the Drug Unit. Once more they would be separated.
The good news was that she loved her job. It was extremely gruelling work, but the end results were incredibly rewarding. She was so glad she’d changed tracks. From working at a high-powered law firm as a defence attorney, she’d scored a job as a Deputy D.A. prosecuting people, and she was thrilled with the switch. One of her high-profile cases was a movie star who’d arranged his wife’s murder – then walked. He was the catalyst for her change of plan. Why defend the probably guilty when she could be doing meaningful work – such as putting the bad guys behind bars? How rewarding to go after the dregs who distributed drugs a
nd got kids hooked at an early age. Talk about job satisfaction!
‘Hey,’ Bobby said, ‘wanna catch a movie and grab a pizza?’
Yes, that’s exactly what she wanted to do. Normal activities with her man.
If only things could stay that way.
Somehow she had a strong suspicion that this was not the case.
Chapter Two
Prince Armand Mohamed Jordan rarely used his full title, only when he visited the country of his birth, Akramshar – a small but lucrative Middle Eastern country located somewhere between Syria and Lebanon.
As a naturalized American, and a mega-successful businessman, he felt it more prudent to keep his title to himself, deciding it wasn’t business savvy to advertise his heritage.
Most of the people he dealt with knew him only as Armand Jordan, a sometimes ruthless and extremely powerful man who expected everything to go his way, and usually it did. None of his business associates were aware that his father was King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan, a man who ruled his small oil-rich country with a stern fist. A man with six current wives and sixteen children.
Armand was suspicious of friendship. The only person he trusted was Fouad Khan, the right-hand man whom he’d imported from Akramshar many years previously. Fouad knew all his secrets and kept them to himself. He was Armand’s sounding board and confidant, always there to do his bidding.
Fortunately or unfortunately for Armand, he was the King’s ninth son, and therefore considered not at all important. So when his American mother – Peggy – a former Las Vegas dancer – had begged to take her son back to America at the age of eight, the King had offered no objections. King Emir was bored with the leggy American redhead and her strident accent. Happy to see her go. And much as Peggy had enjoyed the adventure of living in a harem and being lavished with expensive gifts – enough was enough, and she knew it was time to return to civilization. At twenty-six, the rest of her life was ahead of her, and she planned to live it. The King’s only request was that the boy be returned every September to Akramshar so that young Armand could celebrate the King’s birthday – the most important day of the year in Akramshar.
Peggy complied. The cash pay-off she received was compensation enough for her to do anything the King required.
So Peggy and her son relocated to New York, and Armand soon adapted to the American way of life. It didn’t take him long to love everything about America. The endless TV shows full of fun and adventure, the violent action-packed movies, the loud vibrant music, and the girls. Ah yes, especially the girls, who were far more forward than the girls in Akramshar.
Every September his mother dutifully put him on a plane back to Akramshar, and for several weeks he played the role of a young Prince, mingling with the half-brothers and -sisters he barely knew any more. They failed to get along.
The juxtaposition of his two lives was exciting; it made him feel special, different from the other kids who attended the same private school in Manhattan. He was a Prince, and they were nothing. He felt superior to all of them.
At the age of thirteen, on one of his yearly visits to Akramshar, his father had taken him to one side and informed him it was time he became a man. Immediately one of the King’s minions had ushered him into a room where two prostitutes lounged on a bed waiting for the young Prince.
The following experience with the two older women left an indelible impression on Armand. Although he’d fooled around with girls at school, this encounter was quite different. The prostitutes – one Russian, one Dutch – were in their twenties and heavily made-up. They wore sexy lingerie and high-heeled shoes, and they introduced him to a variety of sexual acts, some of which he enjoyed, some of which disgusted him. When they felt he was fully initiated, they informed him that all sexual acts should be paid for. Not that they were asking him for money – the King’s people had already taken care of them – it was simply something they thought he should be aware of. ‘Women have to be paid for sex,’ they said, exchanging amused glances. They were words of wisdom he never forgot.
Emerging several hours later, his older brothers had jeered and laughed at him. He’d ended up fighting one of them, and gotten a broken nose for his trouble. He hated his siblings; they were all jealous of him because he was different.
His mother – an extremely striking redhead – remarried a month after his eighteenth birthday. This time Peggy chose wisely, she married Sidney Dunn, a very successful investment banker twenty-five years her senior.
Armand respected Sidney; he felt he could learn a lot from the old man, and learn he did. Instead of college he chose to go to business school, and Sidney was always there with his wise counsel.
On Armand’s twenty-first birthday the King summoned him to Akramshar for a special visit. Armand went – reluctantly – for surely once a year was enough? However, it turned out to be a memorable trip, for the King’s closest advisor informed him that in the future the King might – from time to time – need him to take care of various business transactions in America.
Armand, eager to please his father, agreed. And as a twenty-first birthday gift the King presented him with a cheque for one million dollars, money he immediately put to good use. On Sidney’s advice he invested in a parcel of derelict buildings in Queens, which a year later he turned into several apartment complexes, eventually selling them and tripling his initial investment.
After that there was no stopping him. He formed Jordan Developments, and began buying up properties, renovating them, and selling for a large profit. He was also taking care of business for his father, who from time to time needed large sums of money legitimized. Apart from Jordan Developments he formed several subsidiary companies, including an import/export business that he had nothing to do with except in name. By the time he reached the age of thirty he was acquiring hotels and apartment houses up and down the East Coast.
On his yearly visit to Akramshar his father looked on him kindly and beamed with pride. ‘You are the son I can be proud of,’ the King boasted. ‘You are smart, and clever, and trustworthy. You are the son who one day should be inheriting my kingdom.’
These words did not sit well with his half-brothers, who now regarded him with suspicion and even more hatred.
But one thing puzzled the King. ‘Why have you never married?’ he demanded. ‘At your age it is tradition that a man should have many wives and children.’
Armand shrugged. Sex to him was a distraction he didn’t need. His sexual desires were fully met by a series of call girls who serviced his every whim whenever he picked up the phone and summoned them. Women were inferior human beings, something his father had taught him at a very early age. ‘Females are merely vessels to be used for gratifying one’s sexual urges, and bearing children,’ the King had informed him. ‘Never trust them. And never give them your heart.’
His father was right. Women would do anything for money – absolutely anything. And they were stupid creatures too.
A year after his father questioned his marital status, he’d arrived in Akramshar for the usual birthday celebrations, and the King had immediately whisked him off to one of his private palaces. Once there, the King had announced that Armand’s birthday gift to him would be to marry the daughter of a close family friend with whom the King conducted business. ‘You’ll have no responsibilities,’ the King had assured him. ‘Your wife will stay here and, God willing, bear your offspring. This is my desire for you, my dear son. This is my gift.’
The girl was fifteen and a beauty. Her name was Soraya.
Later that day there was a lavish wedding ceremony, and that night Armand had deflowered the innocent Soraya. She was trembling and scared, which didn’t faze him because he had no intention of going against his father’s wishes. Her nervousness was not his problem. She was there to do his bidding, and that was that. He rode her hard, ignoring her startled cries of pain. She was merely a vessel for him to fill, and that was the extent of her usefulness.
A week after his weddi
ng ceremony he flew back to America.
* * *
Upon returning to Akramshar one year later, he was surprised to discover that he had a son. Eleven years later he had fathered three more children, all girls, which didn’t particularly please him, but it made the King happy.
In his mind he regarded Soraya and her brood as his fantasy family. They lived in a place called Akramshar. A place where women were docile and obedient and did as they were told. A place where men ruled.
He lived in a Park Avenue penthouse in New York, where money was his aphrodisiac, and women were his paid playthings. The two worlds only came together in September when the King celebrated his birthday. And that’s the way it should be.
Now Armand was forty-two and becoming restless. He’d conquered the East Coast, and he desired more. His latest plans were to cement a firm position in Las Vegas, a city he’d spent some time in. He was an avid gambler, and the call girls in Vegas were raunchy and used to fulfilling any request – however decadent. Besides, in Vegas he considered that he had family ties. His mother had danced at Caesars Palace, the King had spotted her there and whisked her back to Akramshar. Family ties had to mean something.
His people had done a financial analysis of most of the big hotels. While Steve Wynn’s empire was intriguing and lucrative, and the Palms, the Four Seasons, and the Harrah’s hotel groups were a possibility, the hotel complex he’d finally decided he had to have was The Keys.
Yes, The Keys was perfect. A magnificent structure built to extremely high standards less than two years previously. Not Vegas flashy, but incredibly luxurious and classy. A stunning casino. World-class restaurants and stores. Exquisite gardens, and park-like grounds. A magnificent apartment complex. Multiple swimming pools. Two spas. A manmade lake. A lush golf course. And then there was the hotel itself.
The Keys was it for Armand.
He wanted it, and therefore he would have it.
He had no idea that The Keys was owned by Lucky Santangelo.
And Lucky would never give it up.
Goddess of Vengeance Page 2