Armand was annoyed that Peggy had brought so many suitcases with her. He sat in the back of the limo and fumed. ‘We’re only here for a day or so,’ he muttered. ‘Why did you feel the need to bring so much?’
‘You never know,’ she answered, with a vague wave of her hand. ‘I might stay a while.’
Her statement alarmed Armand, for when he purchased The Keys, the last person he wished to have hanging around was Peggy. His mother belonged in New York, and that’s exactly where he expected her to stay.
‘What meetings do you have here, Armand?’ she asked, as the limousine sped away from the airport.
None of your damn business, he would say if Peggy was a normal woman.
But she wasn’t normal.
She was his mother.
The only woman he had ever feared.
* * *
Armand was situated in the Presidential Suite at The Keys. Four bedrooms, two living rooms, a sauna, a steam shower, five bathrooms, a fully equipped bar, a pool table, a game room, and a private rooftop swimming pool and Jacuzzi. It was more luxurious than his New York apartment, and he decided that when he bought the place, he would use this suite as his own pied-à-terre while he built himself a magnificent mansion on the property.
There was no doubt in his mind that The Keys would be his. No doubt at all.
‘Make certain Peggy stays elsewhere,’ he’d instructed Fouad before arrival. ‘Book her into another hotel. Tell her The Keys is full.’
‘Are you sure?’ Fouad had asked.
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Armand had replied, annoyed that Fouad would question him.
Fouad had managed to arrange a one-bedroom suite for Peggy at The Cavendish, a neighbouring hotel to The Keys. She was surprised when the limousine dropped her off first.
‘No room at The Keys,’ Armand said brusquely, shooting Fouad a why didn’t you tell her? look. Jesus Christ! Did he have to do everything himself?
‘The whole point of my coming here was to spend more time with you, Armand,’ Peggy complained, quite disappointed. ‘There are things we need to discuss.’
‘It’s unfortunate, but there is a big convention at The Keys,’ Fouad explained, attempting to smooth things over. ‘No more suites available. And of course Armand did not wish to put you in a room. He requires only the best for you.’
Little did Peggy suspect that Armand would be occupying a suite with four bedrooms. If she’d known that, she would have insisted on staying with him.
‘Very well,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘And what time will you be picking me up for dinner?’
Armand had not factored in taking Peggy to dinner. This was Vegas, home of the most expensive and inventive call girls in America. Girls who never balked at any request, however out of line. As long as the money flowed, anything was possible, and he’d been planning on taking full advantage. Armand’s line of credit in Vegas was limitless, plus he always travelled with a suitcase full of cash in case of an unforeseen emergency.
Yes, he was ready to indulge himself, and now Peggy expected dinner? Goddamnit! This was not the trip he had imagined.
‘I thought you would be tired after the flight,’ he said tersely. ‘Perhaps room service?’
Peggy threw him a scornful look. ‘Tired, Armand? Me? How old do you think I am? Eighty?’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Pick me up at eight,’ she ordered, cutting him off. ‘And make sure we go somewhere fancy. I plan on dressing up.’
The moment Peggy was out of the limousine, Armand issued more instructions. He handed Fouad an engraved card stamped with the name Yvonne Le Crane, a phone number and an email address. ‘Book two women to be in my suite at five. An Asian and a black girl, both under twenty-five,’ he ordered. ‘I will keep them for two hours. Then at midnight, three more girls. White, preferably from Texas, with blonde hair.’
Fouad was almost speechless. Since when had he been appointed head pimp? He was not an assistant, he was a Chief Officer at Jordan Developments, a man who deserved at least a modicum of respect. Now Armand was instructing him to order up hookers? This was a ridiculous situation.
‘I suggest you might want to make this phone call yourself,’ Fouad said, swallowing his anger. ‘There could be questions I cannot answer. And I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.’
Armand considered Fouad’s words and surprisingly agreed. Yes, he was specific when it came to the women he paid. He would call Yvonne Le Crane – that way he would get exactly what he required. No mistakes.
After all, he was a Prince among men, and he expected only the best.
Chapter Twenty
A text from Bobby informed Max that she and her friends should meet in the private sector of LAX at noon the next day to take the Stanislopoulos plane to Vegas.
She was excited to go on Bobby’s plane, even more excited to spend time with her big brother whom she adored.
As luck would have it, after agreeing that Cookie could bring Frankie to Vegas, Cookie announced that they would be driving, since Frankie wanted to have his car there. Max considered this to be perfect timing, because turning up to meet Bobby with Frankie in tow might’ve been major awkward.
Harry was delighted about being invited on the private plane, even more so when he mentioned Paco had a gig in Vegas, so could he hitch a ride too?
Max agreed, and then she thought – Oh great, everyone will have someone in Vegas except me.
No time to think about that; her main concern was planning the perfect outfit to wear to Billy’s house. Her closet contained a ton of options, none of them quite right. After rummaging through everything she possessed, she finally settled on skinny black jeans, a simple white tank top, and a black cashmere dance hoodie. Tough but cute. It was her look, especially when she added a dozen thin studded bangles, big earrings, a long leather necklace with crosses and sharks’ teeth hanging from it, and a low-slung belt.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror she wondered if she looked any different.
Would anyone be able to tell that she’d finally done the deed?
No way.
‘But I can tell,’ she whispered to herself. ‘And it feels so right.’
Then Ace ruined everything by texting that he was driving into L.A. so that they could celebrate her birthday together.
Crap! She hadn’t told him about Vegas. And she certainly wasn’t planning on telling him about Billy. What was a girl supposed to do?
She quickly texted him back, hoping that he wasn’t already on the road. My mom wants me in Vegas, she tapped out, keeping it vague. Call you when I get back.
That should stop him. And when she did get back she would give him the news that it was over between them.
Sorry, Ace. Too bad. It was fun while it lasted.
Meanwhile, she had Billy on her mind. She couldn’t stop reliving their night together, their long conversations, the feel of his body next to hers. It was like some kind of awesome dream, a dream she never ever wanted to stop.
Billy Melina. Who would believe it?
* * *
‘Billy Melina. Who would believe it?’ the reporter said, as Billy slid into the booth beside her. The girl was in her late twenties, pretty in an aggressive way, with big boobs and an ultra-short skirt. She was on assignment from Rolling Stone, and she didn’t seem to care that he was three hours late for their sit-down interview.
Bambi, his personal publicist, cared. So did the studio publicist. So did the groomer – hired for the day to make sure Billy looked his best at all times. They all hovered anxiously by the table, until Billy waved them away and told them to come back in an hour.
The girl reporter, whose name was Melba, repeated her words.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Billy said, leaning back and ordering a Diet Coke. ‘Got hung up at the beach.’
‘Were you getting laid?’ Melba asked, licking her lips and giving him a flinty stare as if she knew everything about him, or was about to.
‘’Scuse me?’ Billy said, narrowing his blue eyes. This one was determined to be confrontational, and he didn’t like it. Dealing with female reporters could sometimes be dead tricky.
‘I always like to start an interview off with a bang,’ Melba said with a half-smirk.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I like to get down early on. Move in real close to my subject. The closer the better.’
Was she propositioning him? Probably. Now that he was a big star all the girls did. And the guys too, because naturally gay rumours abounded – as they did with every other young male star. He wasn’t gay. Never tried it. Never had any desire to do so. Not that there was anything wrong with it.
Normally he might’ve contemplated taking this girl back to his house for the old blow-job by the pool routine. But after being with Max he wasn’t feeling it. There was something about Max that was incredibly fresh and appealing, and he’d begun to think that it might be nice to get to know her. But there was a big problem – she was Lucky and Lennie’s kid, and with the whole Venus divorce drama going on, dating Max was hardly about to fly.
He’d have to let her down easy; she was young and vulnerable, and seemed to like him a lot. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he decided that when she came to pick up Lucky’s Ferrari, he’d tell her he had another PR gig to go to and send her home.
‘What’s on your mind, Billy Melina?’ Melba asked, licking her lips yet again. ‘You’re not concentrating.’
‘What’s on yours?’ he countered. Sit-down interviews were not his strong suit, and he had a bad feeling about this one.
‘Your divorce,’ Melba said, anticipating a juicy reply. ‘How nasty will it get?’
‘Not on my part,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I’m fine with it all.’
‘No gory details?’ Melba pressed. ‘Some salacious tidbit that nobody else knows?’
‘Sorry to disappoint – no.’
‘Shame. I would’ve thought being married to a controlling older woman would’ve produced all kinds of problems.’
‘You heard it here first,’ Billy said, keeping his cool and wishing he hadn’t sent the PRs away. ‘No problems. And uh . . . shouldn’t we be talking about my movie?’
* * *
Sometimes Denver felt that she could cheerfully murder her family. They never let up on her all night with questions about Bobby.
When’s he coming?
Why is he so late?
Who is this guy?
What exactly does he do?
You like him, you really like him.
She’d received a series of texts from Bobby full of excuses about cancelled and delayed flights, but she was disappointed by the time she headed home. Couldn’t he have made more of an effort to meet her family for the first time? It pissed her off that he hadn’t done so.
Amy Winehouse greeted her as if she’d been gone a year. A rush of happy barking, followed by wet doggy licks and kisses all over her face. It was comforting to feel wanted.
She took Amy for a walk around the block, and returned to find that Sam had left another message. He was certainly persistent.
And normal.
And attractive.
Why not go for him instead of the dazzling, rich, too handsome for his own good, Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos?
Interesting question.
Easy answer.
I love Bobby, and that’s all there is to it.
* * *
Prowling around Kennedy airport was giving Bobby the distinct feeling that he was trapped in a maze of bars, fast-food restaurants, donut and magazine stands, plus a hundred other useless stores. The flight he was supposed to be on was cancelled at the last minute, while the current flight he was booked onto kept getting delayed.
It occurred to him that he was an idiot not to have had the Stanislopoulos plane pick him up in New York. Such a dumb move. What was he thinking?
After trying to get on an earlier flight – fully booked – he made his way back to the lounge with the latest Harlan Coben thriller, and attempted to read and chill out. But he soon found it impossible to concentrate – too much going on in his head. The new clubs he was planning to build were a real challenge. Exciting, but at the same time quite daunting. He’d conquered New York and Vegas with Mood, so bring on L.A. and Miami. After that, who knew?
His big ambition was to create an empire. His empire. And maybe, like Gino and Lucky before him, he would eventually move into the hotel business. He had in mind small boutique hotels that would cater to a very distinct clientele, people who were looking for somewhere special and private.
‘Bobby?’
He glanced up, and there stood Annabelle Maestro, Frankie’s ex-girlfriend, now a minor TV personality since the murder of her movie-star mother and the arrest of her action-star father. Annabelle was a true child of Hollywood. She had written a book about growing up in L.A. with famous parents, and then all about the year she’d spent running call girls in New York. Like most of the people who became stars of reality television, she’d made a career out of simply being seen around, appearing on talk shows, and doing nothing much at all.
‘Annabelle Maestro!’ Bobby exclaimed, putting down his book. ‘How’re you, stranger?’
Annabelle immediately sat down next to him without being invited to do so. ‘I’m doing so well it’s ridiculous,’ she gushed, pretty and powdered in a slightly plastic way, with her very long pale golden-red hair, high cheekbones, and suspiciously plump lips.
Bobby had known her way before she’d hooked up with Frankie. Along with M.J., Denver and Carolyn, they’d all attended the same Beverly Hills high school.
‘My schedule is completely insane,’ Annabelle continued. ‘Ever since the success of my book . . .’
‘What book?’ Bobby was tempted to say, but then he vaguely remembered Denver mentioning something about it.
‘My Life – A Hollywood Princess Tells All,’ Annabelle said, reminding him of the title. ‘Currently out in paperback, which is why I’m in New York doing publicity. I was on Watch What Happens Live this week with the adorable Andy Cohen. Did you see it?’
Was she kidding?
‘’Fraid not,’ he said, flipping open a courtesy packet of nuts. ‘This has been a quick trip for me.’
‘Trip?’ she questioned, fluffing back her long hair. ‘I thought you lived in the city.’
‘Uh . . . yeah, but now I kinda spend most of my time on the West Coast.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Annabelle said, giving him a piercing look. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still seeing Denver? That’s a surprise.’
‘Why is that a surprise?’ Bobby asked, sensing a bitchy response was headed in his direction.
‘You know,’ Annabelle said, with a dismissive shrug. ‘Denver’s hardly the girl I see by your side.’
‘Yeah?’ Bobby said, not about to put up with her crap. ‘And who would you see by my side?’
A coy giggle. ‘Someone like me.’
Jesus Christ, did she honestly imagine he would ever go for someone like her? All fake – from her hair extensions to her obviously enhanced cheekbones. No freaking way.
‘The thing is,’ Annabelle continued, unfazed by his lack of response, ‘you and I come from the same backgrounds. We’re pedigrees, while I guess you would have to call Denver some kind of mutt.’
‘Jesus, you’re a real bitch!’ Bobby exclaimed. ‘Are you listening to what you’re saying?’
Annabelle shrugged. ‘The truth can be a harsh pill to swallow.’ A beat, and then, ‘Where’s your plane? Shouldn’t we be taking that to L.A.?’
Bobby stood up abruptly. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he said, loud and clear. And then he walked off.
* * *
Dinner with Gino again, not such a bad thing. This time Paige, his third wife, was with him. And Jeffrey Lonsdale joined them, along with the owners of The Cavendish Hotel – a lesbian couple, Renee and Susie, whom Lucky liked very much. Renee was a ballsy old broad, and her partner
, Susie, was an ex-Hollywood wife. They both had plenty to say for themselves, and Gino always enjoyed their company.
Lucky had organized a window table at François, the best French restaurant in Vegas. Since it was located at the top of The Keys, the view of the sparkling Las Vegas lights was breathtaking.
Sitting across the table from Gino, Lucky couldn’t help staring at him and wondering what the hell she’d do without him. They shared such a rocky history, but she loved him with every bone in her body, and she was fiercely protective of him, as he was of her. Over the years they’d fought off so many enemies from Gino’s past, but in the end they’d reigned victorious, although it had not been an easy ride.
Never fuck with a Santangelo, the family motto. Lucky smiled. They were words to live by.
Earlier she’d called Max at the house to see how she was doing. No answer there. No answer on her cell. Lucky wasn’t worried – Max could take care of herself. She’d thwarted that crazy pervert who’d attempted to kidnap her a year ago, and she’d come out a winner.
In her heart Lucky knew that Max was a true Santangelo and could protect herself come what may.
* * *
Max took a cab to Billy’s house. Like most L.A. cab drivers her driver barely spoke English and drove as if he was involved in a high-speed car chase with cops inches behind him. The cab stank of garlic, and the driver kept on muttering in a foreign language under his breath. Several times he applied the brakes so hard that she almost fell on the floor. Lovely!
By the time they reached Billy’s, she was nervous and flustered, a combination of the out-of-control ride and seeing Billy again. She hadn’t mentioned what had taken place between her and Billy to anyone, not even Harry, who at times could be relied upon to be fairly discreet. Harry had dropped by her house earlier, apologized for running out on the chaos and mess, then proceeded to smoke a joint and rave about Paco for one full hour. Eventually she’d told him he’d better leave because she had to get ready for a hot date. Interest piqued, Harry wanted to know who her date was with. She’d managed not to tell him, even though she was dying to confide in someone.
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