‘Because I keep getting calls from a man representing Jordan Developments. He claims you’re prepared to sell, and that Jordan Developments is ready to buy.’
‘That’s total bullshit,’ Lucky said. ‘And who the hell is Jordan Developments?’
‘A big real-estate company. I’m looking into it. Just needed to make sure.’
‘Jeffrey,’ Lucky said patiently, ‘surely you know that if I was prepared to sell, you would be the first to know?’
‘Of course. But Fouad Khan – the Jordan Development representative – seemed very sure and very persistent.’
‘Well, tell Mr Kahn to go persist elsewhere. The Keys is not for sale. Not now or ever.’
‘Message received loud and clear.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘I must say, Lucky, I thought it had to be a joke. Everyone knows you put your heart and soul into building that complex, so I was certain there was no chance you’d be putting it on the market.’
‘You got that right.’
‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.’
‘We have.’
‘Then enjoy your day.’
‘You too, Jeffrey.’
‘Unfortunately it’s raining in New York.’
‘Sorry to tell you, but it’s brilliant sunshine here,’ she said, gazing out at the vast expanse of blue ocean.
‘Ah, Lucky, you always know how to stick it to me.’
‘You’re the lawyer,’ she said, smiling. ‘You should be used to people sticking it to you.’
‘Trust you to point that out.’
‘Well, anyway, you’re flying to Vegas for the board meeting on Friday, so you’ll get plenty of sunshine then.’
‘In a boardroom?’ Jeffrey said dryly.
‘Stay the weekend,’ Lucky suggested. ‘I’m throwing a birthday party for Max, it’ll be fun.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Not maybe, Jeffrey. Say yes. Bring your wife.’
‘We’re getting a divorce.’
‘Then bring your girlfriend.’
‘I do not have one.’
‘Okay, okay, enough about your love-life. But if you do decide to stay over, let my assistant know. He’ll take excellent care of you.’
She clicked off the phone thinking what a crazy way to start the day.
The Keys was her ultimate achievement. She would never sell. Never.
* * *
Bobby got up and left the apartment early before Denver was awake. He had an important meeting in Vegas with Russian investors who, according to his partner M.J., were ready to close on a deal to put up all the money for branches of Mood in Miami and L.A. He’d decided to personally show them the star that was Mood, Las Vegas. The Russians were not easy to deal with, but they were the ones with the money to do things the way he wanted. After finishing with the Russians he had more meetings in New York, then after that he’d hop a plane and be back in time to pick up Denver and take her for a romantic Vegas weekend.
He was getting in way deep with Denver. The more time he spent with her, the better he liked her. She was so damn normal and way smarter than any girl he’d been with. And she was beautiful – inside and out. There was an incandescent quality about her that he couldn’t get enough of.
He wanted her to spend more time with Lucky, so that the two of them could get to know each other. It was important to him that his mom approved of the girl he was becoming serious about. Not that he’d told Lucky anything; it was up to her to discover how great Denver was, and the birthday party weekend would be the perfect time.
The next step he planned was buying a house in L.A. where they could live together. Denver’s apartment was too small for him, he needed more space. He’d brought the subject up a couple of times, whereupon she’d informed him it was too soon to think of living together.
‘But sweetheart, I live here when I’m in L.A.’ he’d pointed out.
‘No, you stay here,’ she’d corrected. ‘That’s not the same as living together.’
Man, she could be difficult. Most girls would go nuts if he offered to buy a house for them. But part of Denver’s charm was that she was not most girls, and that’s another thing he loved about her.
Flooring his new silver Lamborghini Murciélago LP640, he blasted Jay-Z, and headed for Vegas.
* * *
‘I fail to understand your problem,’ Denver’s best friend Carolyn said, rocking the stroller next to her in the garden of her small West Hollywood house, situated behind Pavilions supermarket on a quiet street. ‘Bobby is a fantastic guy, and it’s blatantly obvious he’s wild about you.’
‘You think?’ Denver said unsurely, sipping from a mug of coffee.
‘I know,’ Carolyn responded, pushing back a lock of honey-blonde hair. ‘He’s great, and he’s been so nice to me.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’ Denver said, placing her coffee mug on a rickety outdoor table. ‘Let’s not forget you were caught in a terrifying situation. Kidnapped, taken hostage, and pregnant . . .’
‘Then along came you and Bobby like the cavalry – rescuing my sorry ass,’ Carolyn said, making light of what had been a very perilous situation.
‘Couldn’t have done it without Bobby,’ Denver said. ‘He was a big help.’
‘Without the two of you . . .’ Carolyn trailed off, trying not to think about the ordeal she’d survived. Working in Washington as an assistant to the very married Senator Gregory Stoneman, they’d become involved in a torrid affair. And just like most married men, the Senator had promised to leave his wife, but of course he’d had no intention of doing so, and when Carolyn had informed him she was pregnant, he’d panicked and set up her kidnapping, in the hope that she would lose the baby. Thank God for Denver and Bobby, they’d found her just in time.
After spending a few days in a hospital recovering, Carolyn had fled Washington to L.A., given birth to her baby – a boy she’d named Andy – and vowed that she would never speak to Senator Stoneman again. Not that he was exactly running after her, she hadn’t heard a word since she’d left. And she didn’t care. Andy was all hers; she would never allow Gregory anywhere near her son.
‘My problem is Bobby’s mom,’ Denver ventured, anxious to vent her feelings. ‘She’s so . . . well, how can I describe her?’
‘Go ahead and try,’ Carolyn said briskly.
‘For a start she’s drop-dead beautiful,’ Denver began, attempting to paint an accurate portrait of the incredible Lucky Santangelo. ‘I mean she’s tall, olive-skinned, with incredible dark eyes and hair. She’s an absolute knockout in a very earthy Italian way.’
‘What’s so bad about that?’ Carolyn remarked. ‘She certainly passed on the good genes to Bobby.’
‘She’s also extremely accomplished,’ Denver continued, wondering how she could possibly live up to the force of nature that was Lucky Santangelo. ‘She builds her own hotels, she once ran a major movie studio. She gave birth to three children, and if that isn’t enough, she’s an insane cook, does everything herself, and has a long-lasting and apparently very happy marriage to Lennie Golden.’
‘The movie star?’
‘He was. Now he writes and directs extremely successful independent movies.’
‘Sounds as if Bobby has a lot to live up to.’
‘Lennie’s not his father,’ Denver explained, picking up her coffee mug. ‘I thought I told you – his father is a deceased Greek billionaire ship-owner. Hence the company plane whenever he wants it. Something else to intimidate me.’
‘Stop it, Denver,’ Carolyn said firmly. ‘Nothing should intimidate you.’
‘So,’ Denver said, grimacing. ‘Bobby’s mom is perfect and I’m not.’
‘Oh my God!’ Carolyn said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. ‘Will you listen to yourself.’
‘What?’ Denver said, aggravated that Carolyn wasn’t getting it.
‘You’re incredible, Denver. You have a terrific career doing something meaningful. You’re young,
smart, beautiful, and you have a great boyfriend.’ Carolyn paused for a moment, then added, ‘It’s a given that your cooking skills are nil. But I’ve got a strong suspicion Bobby is not with you for your culinary assets.’
Denver couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’m not beautiful and I’m not so young any more, but I am smart,’ she admitted.
‘Oh yeah,’ Carolyn said. ‘Twenty-seven is really getting up there. And let me correct you – your beauty is not magazine perfect, it’s warm and natural – made all the better ’cause you damn well have no clue how great-looking you are.’
‘Thanks, but you should see the girls that hang out in Bobby’s club. Not to mention the ones that come up to him when we’re out. They’re all over him.’
‘What do you care? He’s with you, isn’t he?’
‘I guess . . .’
‘She guesses!’ Carolyn echoed, rolling her eyes. ‘The man is crazy for you, everyone knows it. And about those random girls – let me take a shot: size zero ’cause they never eat. Huge boobs – fake. Huge lips – fake. High cheekbones – fake. And—’
‘Stop!’ Denver said, breaking into laughter. ‘They’re in the entertainment business, they have to look their best.’
‘Bull!’ Carolyn exclaimed. ‘And don’t take this personally, but I’m changing the subject – to me.’
‘Good,’ Denver responded. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘I’ve decided to become gay,’ Carolyn announced.
Denver choked on her coffee. ‘What?’ she spluttered. ‘You can’t just decide to become gay. It’s something you’re either into or you’re not.’
‘I’m into it,’ Carolyn said matter-of-factly. ‘Met this lovely woman at yoga. She’s invited me out on a date. So guess what – I’m going.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I’m off men forever. First I was with Matt who cheated on me. Then Gregory who turned out to be a lying, despicable piece of crap. I’ve had it with the male sex – I don’t want anything to do with them any more. Not so hard to understand, right?’
‘Well . . .’ Denver began, but before she could say anything else Andy began to cry, and glancing at her watch she realized that if she didn’t get a move on she’d be late for work.
‘Then you think I should go to Vegas?’ she asked, grabbing her car keys and hurrying toward the door.
‘Damn right you should,’ Carolyn said, reaching down to pick up her son.
‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ Denver said, deciding that she definitely would. ‘And you have fun with . . . uh . . . who?’
‘Vanessa,’ Carolyn said, smiling. ‘And yes, I promise I will.’
* * *
Groping for her cell while still asleep was nothing new for Max. ‘What?’ she mumbled into her BlackBerry.
‘Guess where I am?’ came the whispered reply.
‘Cookie?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Cookie giggled. ‘Little ole me.’
Max opened one eye. ‘Where are you?’ she asked, although she had a horrible suspicion that she already knew the answer.
‘Guess!’
‘Don’t wanna guess,’ Max said irritably, kicking off her duvet. ‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘I’m in Frankie’s bed, and it was amazing.’ Cookie sighed. ‘Like totally random amazing sex.’
‘Crap!’ Max exclaimed, sitting up. ‘You didn’t screw him, did you?’
‘’Course I did,’ Cookie said, with a triumphant giggle.
‘Oh my God!’ Max scolded. ‘You’re not supposed to screw someone like Frankie.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cause you’re just not. He’s way too sketchy, and a total druggie.’
‘But it was soooo great,’ Cookie enthused. ‘Wanna hear the sex-drenched details?’
‘No thank you,’ Max said primly. ‘I’d rather not.’
‘Hey – you’re no fun,’ Cookie complained. ‘I’m gonna hav’ta call Harry, he’s so into details.’
‘Do that.’
Jeez! Frankie Romano, Bobby’s former drug-addict best friend, and Cookie. This was not welcome news. And it was all her fault because she should never have left Cookie at the club. Frankie was a certified low-life who’d been running call girls with his previous girlfriend, Annabelle Maestro. He’d use Cookie, cast her aside, and the fall-out would be a total pain. She’d have to listen to Cookie moan and groan for weeks on end.
What a bummer! Why had she gone and hooked them up with Frankie simply to get into his stupid club? She should’ve known better.
Grabbing an oversized T-shirt, she fell out of bed, wondering what she could do to rectify the situation.
Unfortunately nothing came to mind.
* * *
Bobby was all business as he pulled into the private parking sector of The Keys. M.J., who was not only his business partner but also his closest confidant, came strolling over to greet him. They exchanged a macho hug.
M.J. was African-American and handsome, although slightly short. He was married to Cassie, a young singer with big ambitions. They’d gotten married in Vegas on a whim, and now just under a year later, Cassie was pregnant. M.J., who’d moved to Vegas from New York to oversee the launch of Mood, was delighted. Cassie was not. At almost nineteen, she wanted a career, not a baby. M.J.’s affluent parents – his father was a renowned neurosurgeon and his mother a former opera singer – were perched on the sidelines, waiting to see what happened next. Cassie was not the girl they’d envisioned for their only son, nor was a career opening nightclubs, however successful they might be.
M.J. didn’t care. He was crazy about his young wife, but now with a baby on the way, there was a catch, something he couldn’t wait to discuss with Bobby.
‘Great wheels!’ M.J. exclaimed, checking out Bobby’s Lamborghini.
Bobby nodded. ‘Yeah – since I’ve been spending so much time on the West Coast I decided I needed to buy me a car. It can get up to 211 miles per hour, man. It’s insane, and I love every minute of it. Denver doesn’t.’
‘No shit,’ M.J. said, walking around the car, giving it a full inspection. ‘I wonder why.’
‘Thinks it’s too flashy and fast.’
‘Well, bro, low key it ain’t.’
They both laughed, and exchanged an enthusiastic fist pump.
‘How is your low-key girlfriend?’ M.J. asked, as they entered the enormous glass enclosed lobby. ‘Still putting away bad guys?’
‘Denver’s great,’ Bobby said. ‘She’s a special kind of girl.’
‘I’m gettin’ you feel that way. I’ve never seen you so caught up.’
‘What can I tell you?’ Bobby said, with a big grin. ‘The woman makes me happy.’
‘And that, my man, is all that matters.’
‘Right on!’
‘An’ talking of happy,’ M.J. said, ‘I got some news of my own.’
‘Wanna tell me?’
‘Cassie’s pregnant.’
‘Jeez, M.J. You ready for that?’
‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
‘Told your parents yet?’
‘Haven’t got around to it, but I will.’
‘You’d better.’
‘Don’t think I don’t know it.’
‘They’ll be happy for you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Sure they will. Now let’s go kick some investor butt. And later we gotta get together an’ celebrate.’
Chapter Five
Once Armand Jordan decided he wanted something there was no going back, whether it be a woman, an unobtainable painting, a special delicacy, a one-of-a-kind car, a building. Nobody ever said no to Armand, and if they did, he merely upped the price.
Usually he favoured high-class call girls – hookers had tricks that other women did not possess. Little tricks. Dirty tricks. Filthy things a man can only dream about.
Once in a while he came across a woman who was not for sale. This did not faze Armand, for he believed they all had a price
. And sometimes it wasn’t monetary.
On occasion it intrigued him to discover what that price might be. It was a game he played for his own enjoyment, and when Armand played, he played to win.
His latest conquest was Nona Constantine, the wife of Martin Constantine, one of his rivals in the real-estate business, a man some considered to be almost as powerful as him.
How wrong they were!
Nona was exactly the kind of challenge he craved. Married, with a young child, she was a former beauty queen from Slovakia, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her husband doted on her, but Armand’s canny instinct allowed him to guess that ever since she’d given birth, Martin was not fucking her the way a woman yearned to be fucked.
Armand worked on her slowly, and since they moved in the same New York social circles – art gallery openings, charity events, small dinner parties – it was quite easy to get close to her. Especially as he always had a girl on his arm. Only he knew that his so-called ‘dates’ were bought and paid for; that way they never gave him any trouble or made any demands. His unbreakable rule was never to use the same girl twice.
New York hostesses considered Armand Jordan a huge catch. They were always trying to fix him up, but he eluded their attempts. He was attractive in a slightly mysterious way, with a neat black moustache, thick eyebrows framing brooding eyes, and an impeccable dress sense. Only the best for Armand. He wore socks and underwear once, then threw them away. Shirts he might wear twice, but that was it. And his hand-tailored suits never stayed in his closet longer than a month.
The hostesses persevered, for not only was Armand mega-rich, it was rumoured that back in the small Middle Eastern country he originally hailed from, he possessed some kind of title.
He never spoke of that.
It took him a couple of months to get Nona to his penthouse on the pretext of showing her a rare Picasso he’d recently acquired. He did not mind the wait, in fact he quite enjoyed the anticipation of the conquest.
She arrived at eleven in the morning, an innocent time of day. She had on a pale pink Chanel suit with a lacy blouse underneath, and beige Louboutin heels that clicked on his highly polished marble floor as he led her around his penthouse, giving her the grand tour. Finally they ended up in the master bedroom, a masculine room, all deep burgundy leather couches and black cashmere throws covering the over-sized bed.
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