Remembering those times was a memory, one she treasured.
Seeing Gino Santangelo had given her a jolt. The fact that he was still alive was a big surprise. She realized that he must be at least ninety-something, because the one memorable night she’d spent with him he was in his fifties, but even so he’d been a vigorous lover, such a powerhouse.
At eighteen she’d considered herself quite experienced, but Gino Santangelo had given new meaning to the act of making love . . .
* * *
LAS VEGAS 1968
Peggy Lindquest and Joe Piscarelli made quite the dashing couple around town. Peggy was a stunner, and Joe was no slouch in the handsome stakes with his wannabe gangster movie-star looks. Their relationship was quite volatile due to major jealousy issues on both sides. Joe, at the age of thirty, had been around and then some, which meant there were quite a few exes in his world. One-nighters, two-nighters, and so on.
Peggy claimed she had only been with one other man – her high-school boyfriend. She was lying, of course, but since she was new to Vegas there was no way of Joe proving otherwise.
They fought like wildcats. And then they made up as if they were starring in a porno movie.
It was their pattern.
The one thing that scared Peggy was Joe’s violent outbursts, and when they got too bad she usually spent the night at a girlfriend’s house. Joe always arrived to collect her the next morning – and all was quiet on the Western front. But Peggy’s girlfriends kept on warning her that Joe’s vile temper could easily escalate and become physical. Peggy refused to believe he would ever hit her.
One night he did act out, shoving her violently across the room. Shocked, she fled to her girlfriend Veronica’s apartment in a panic, tears and everything.
Veronica, a statuesque black beauty who was a dancer in the Folies Bergères show at the Tropicana, was on her way to an exclusive party at Caesars Palace. She insisted that Peggy dry her tears and come with her. Peggy declined, until Veronica whispered in her ear, ‘There’s a rumour Sinatra may show up.’
Frank Sinatra. Every Vegas showgirl’s dream.
Peggy rapidly changed her mind, and the two girls set off to join the party, dressed to conquer.
Sinatra never appeared, but Gino Santangelo was there, and Gino Santangelo was a legendary figure in Vegas.
Peggy set her charm on high beam and went for it. She’d had no idea it would turn out to be such a heavenly experience. The man was not nicknamed Gino the Ram for nothing.
After a short conversation at the party, he invited her upstairs to a sumptuous suite, asked if her breasts were real, whereupon he slowly proceeded to strip her – garment by garment, until she stood before him in her high heels and nothing else.
She wasn’t shy. She was almost naked on stage every night.
He admired her body, slowly fingering her in the most intimate of places, and when he decided she was ready, he took her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed with her legs spread. Then he went down on her, slowly, surely, until she was in such a state of ecstasy that she was soon begging him to fuck her.
But he didn’t. He forced her to wait, until he was ready to make her come with his tongue.
She lay on the bed writhing with passion, desperate for him to ravish her, all thoughts of Joe set aside.
But Gino took his time, exciting her all the more. He pulled her off the bed and led her to the shower, and only then did he divest himself of his clothes and climb in with her, whereupon he proceeded to soap her body until she reached orgasm again, screaming aloud with pleasure.
Finally they returned to the bedroom where he made love to her for what seemed like hours, then at dawn, he sent her home in a chauffeured sedan, and she never heard from him again.
* * *
Peggy had something on her mind, something she’d conveniently never faced up to, but it was something she’d always secretly wondered about.
In the space of one week in 1968 she’d slept with Joe Piscarelli, Gino Santangelo, and King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan. A month later she’d discovered she was pregnant.
So who was actually Armand’s real father?
Was it Joe Piscarelli, her would-be gangster boyfriend?
Gino Santangelo, her one-night stand?
Or her ex-husband, King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan?
Surely it was about time she found out . . .
Chapter Thirty
The board meeting was about to start, and after her unsettling and annoying morning, Lucky was pleased to be in a room with her investors – all of whom were full of positive vibes.
Alex Woods was also present, standing over in a corner drinking a cup of coffee.
She headed in his direction. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘I wasn’t sure you would, but I’m glad you did.’
‘You think I’d miss little Max’s birthday?’ he replied, giving her a long steady look.
‘It’s nice of you to make the effort.’
‘And she’s so formal,’ he remarked, giving her another long look, a look that said – we could be making beautiful love together, but you’re still hung up on your goddamn husband.
‘Well, I know how busy you are.’
‘Never too busy for you, Lucky,’ he replied, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘Okay,’ she said, attempting to lighten things up. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
He fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and went to light it up.
‘No smoking!’ she admonished.
His look turned quizzical. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Please, Alex, for me. I gave it up, and I don’t want to be tempted.’
‘You don’t, huh?’
‘No, thank you.’
He put the cigarette back in its packet. ‘When’s Lennie getting here?’ he inquired.
‘Didn’t you just ask me that in L.A.?’
‘Is it a crime to ask you again?’
‘Knock it off, Alex,’ she said, suddenly becoming impatient. ‘I know what you’re doing.’
‘Huh?’
‘Why didn’t you bring a girlfriend with you?’
‘What now?’
‘A girlfriend, Alex,’ she said, repeating herself. ‘A gorgeous young thing to keep you occupied so that Lennie doesn’t get the impression you’re still lusting after me.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Alex said, squinting slightly. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Actually, it’s not what I think, it’s what I know.’
‘Well,’ he said with a sardonic edge. ‘Glad to note your ego is alive and well and living happily in fantasy land.’
‘Cut the crap, Alex,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you do yourself a big favour and send for one of your many women?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because the last thing I need is any tension between you and Lennie, who incidentally arrives later this afternoon, which I do believe I already told you.’
‘Screw you, Santangelo,’ Alex said, scowling.
‘And wouldn’t you like to,’ she fired back.
‘Jesus!’ he complained. ‘You’re out of control.’
‘Well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it?’
Before Alex could reply, Gino strolled over. ‘Y’know, I’m kinda surprised you two never got together,’ he remarked. ‘You’re always at each other’s throats. Makes for a combative mix.’
‘Do I look Asian?’ Lucky drawled.
‘I get it,’ Gino said, chuckling loudly. ‘Alex only raises the flag for—’
‘Don’t even go there!’ Lucky warned, well aware of the politically incorrect word Gino was about to use.
‘Let him say it,’ Alex said with a throaty laugh. ‘He’s old, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Who’re you callin’ old?’ Gino griped. ‘It takes balls t’reach my age an’ still be standin’ on two fuckin’ feet.’
‘And I give you kudos for that,’ Alex said. ‘You’re my
idol, Gino. I want to be just like you when I grow up.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Lucky exclaimed. ‘Why don’t the two of you go form a circle jerk and be done with it?’
‘She’s your daughter,’ Alex pointed out.
‘Yeah,’ Gino agreed, with another wicked chuckle. ‘She’s the son I never had.’
‘You had a son. Dario,’ Lucky reminded him sharply. ‘And because he was gay there’s no reason for you to disrespect him.’
‘Kiddo – I didn’t mean—’
‘You know what? Screw both of you,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re a couple of little big boys, so go ahead – get your kicks playing with each other. That’s just about the level of your style.’
‘Hey,’ Gino objected. ‘Is that any way t’talk to your old man?’
Lucky shook her head again. Sometimes dealing with Gino was like dealing with a little kid. ‘Where’s Paige?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t she be taking care of you?’
‘That’ll be the day, when I need takin’ care of,’ Gino snorted. ‘I might be gettin’ up there, but I’m not fuckin’ dead. Anyway, she’s over at The Cavendish dealin’ with beauty shit.’
‘What’s wrong with the salon here?’
‘She’s got her special girl over at The Cavendish. Do I know?’
‘Okay, I get it. So I suggest you and Alex take your seats and let’s get this show on the road.’
And so they did, and the meeting took place, and went extremely well. Everyone was enthusiastic about how well The Keys was doing in spite of such a flat economy. The hotel was operating at capacity. The casino couldn’t be busier. And there was a long waiting list to purchase one of the multi-million-dollar apartments.
Halfway through the meeting, Venus dutifully put in an appearance, beguiling everyone with her radiant blonde beauty and dazzling star power. Venus certainly knew how to captivate a room.
Afterwards there was a buffet lunch, during which Lucky managed to avoid another one-on-one with Alex. Too uncomfortable. She wished that he’d get married or start living with someone again. Having Alex on the loose was too dangerous. Unfortunately there was still a deep connection between them. And if Lennie wasn’t around . . .
No! she told herself sternly.
Don’t even think it.
* * *
Jorge did not gamble, Venus did, and after her appearance at the board meeting she felt like some action. Gambling was always a turn-on, especially when she ended up a winner.
Entering the casino at The Keys, Jorge went into semi-shock. Such opulence. Such a huge amount of people throwing their money around. Not to mention the beautiful cocktail waiters and waitresses attending to the customers’ every need.
He immediately wondered if he could get a job here, for he was street smart enough to know that this thing with Venus wouldn’t last, and when she tired of him – which he knew she would – what then? Was he supposed to run back to L.A. and the sex-crazed fat agent he’d been forced to service simply to score a job on Venus’s photo shoot?
No, Jorge had not fled Rio and the Favelas, where he’d almost raised himself, to become the plaything of a series of horny American women.
Venus was exquisite, but she was too famous for him, and at forty-something too old – even though she was in impeccable shape with her perfect body and muscled thighs. Earlier, while he was going down on her, she’d almost strangled him with her strong thighs. Lost in her juices, he’d had to splutter and grunt to get her to release him.
Jorge hung back as two security guards accompanied Venus around the casino. Soon he noticed a crowd beginning to form, and he wondered what it must be like to be so famous.
One day . . . one day somewhere in the future, he vowed to find out.
* * *
‘Remember that time you got a dose of the crabs from some piece a stray you banged, then you hadda ’splain it with some bullshit story to Venus?’ Kev said with a raucous chuckle. ‘Good times, buddy, good times.’
‘For you, maybe,’ Billy responded, cracking a slight smile. ‘I hadda tell Venus I caught ’em from a crapper. Don’t think she believed me.’
Kev snorted with mirth. ‘Yeah, those were the bad-ass days. God, I miss ’em.’
They were now settled in a luxury villa at The Cavendish, and Kev was hot to hit the tables; he kept on encouraging Billy to do the same.
‘I gotta coupla biz calls to make,’ Billy said, thrusting a few hundred-dollar bills at Kev. ‘Go put this on seven for me. An’ try to make sure I’m a winner.’
‘Like when’re you ever not?’ Kev grumbled, grabbing the money and taking off. ‘See you in the casino.’
‘Ten minutes,’ Billy promised. ‘Don’t forget – number seven.’
As soon as Kev left, he paced up and down for a minute or two, then he called Max on her cell. No reply. He hesitated about leaving a message, then decided against it. He’d sooner talk to her personally.
Unusual for him, but he was feeling slightly apprehensive about what she’d have to say. Would she be pleased he’d followed her to Vegas? Or would she blow him off?
For now he’d just have to wait and see.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘You ever thought of dumpin’ the dreads?’ Frankie inquired, as he and Cookie lay side by side on top of the bed in their hotel room, casually sharing a joint.
‘Huh?’ Cookie replied, immediately tugging on the Caribbean dreadlocks that she considered her trademark. ‘Never had any complaints before.’
‘I was kinda thinkin’ you might wanna go for a softer look,’ Frankie suggested.
‘You sound like my dad,’ Cookie said, dragging on the weed. ‘I’m totally into my dreads. Who wants to look like every other girl in L.A.?’
‘You, never,’ Frankie insisted, extracting the joint from her fingers and taking a deep hit. ‘You’re an original.’
‘Why you even askin’?’ Cookie demanded, thinking that for an older guy Frankie sure had his shit together. He was okay in the sack. He came up with a steady assortment of drugs, and he was a kick to be around. Not boring, like Max’s boyfriend, Ace. And not a weirdo like Harry – because even though Harry was one of her best friends, she had to admit he was kind of eccentric at times.
‘’Cause every time you give me a b.j. your dreads keep hittin’ my balls,’ Frankie said, exhaling a thin line of smoke.
‘Ewh!’ Cookie giggled. ‘Wouldn’t wanna damage your precious cojones.’
‘You wouldn’t, huh?’ Frankie said.
‘No, ’cause then you couldn’t get it up.’
‘You got a dirty mouth.’
‘An’ doncha love it,’ Cookie responded, rolling over and climbing astride him. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘who’d you want me to look like?’
‘Janet Jackson at her peak,’ Frankie said with a wink. ‘You’re as pretty as her.’
Cookie giggled again and snatched the joint back from him. ‘A thin Janet Jackson,’ she said pointedly. ‘With way better tits.’
‘Now hold on,’ Frankie objected, pushing her off him. ‘You gotta admit the woman’s got a dynamite pair, we all saw ’em at the Super Bowl.’
‘An’ I don’t?’ Cookie said, pouting.
‘That goes without sayin’, Honeytits.’
‘Honeytits!’ she squealed. ‘Where’d you come up with that?’
‘Mel Gibson, I think.’
‘Screw Mel Gibson. An’ anyway, he called that cop Sugartits.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No way.’
‘I got an idea.’
‘What?’
‘Whyn’t you blow me, Sugartits, an’ shut the fuck up.’
Cookie so appreciated being treated like an adult.
* * *
Bobby’s surprise was a private boat on Lake Mead, with a gourmet late lunch and an attentive waiter. Denver could’ve done without the lunch and the waiter, but she didn’t say anything because she was fully aware that Bobby meant well, and it was a very
thoughtful gesture.
However, she couldn’t help sneaking a peek at her BlackBerry to see what was going on back in L.A. Taking Friday off was not a career-enhancing move, but Bobby had been so insistent, and since she was moving on to the Drug Unit, did it really matter? She’d won her final case, avoided her horny boss, and Monday she would start fresh.
‘What are you doing?’ Bobby wanted to know, leaning over her shoulder.
‘Just checking on work.’
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘No, what?’
‘Not while we’re on our first vacation.’
‘Bobby,’ she reminded him gently. ‘This is not a vacation, it’s a weekend.’
‘And our first one away together,’ he pointed out, kissing her neck.
‘Okay,’ she said, clicking her phone off. ‘Whatever my Lord and Master wants.’
‘Easy!’ he laughed. ‘I’m not that bad.’
‘Well, you are being kind of overbearing.’
‘Thought I was being romantic.’
‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll leave work alone until later.’
‘Later I might have more surprises.’
‘Hmm . . . something to look forward to?’
‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
* * *
‘I appeared at the Maracana Stadium in Rio once,’ Venus informed Jorge who was now massaging her feet after their stint in the casino. She’d won twenty-five thousand dollars at blackjack, so she was on a high. ‘Thousands of people, and little old me,’ she reminisced. ‘It was a fantastic night. Very memorable.’
‘Ah . . . Maracana,’ Jorge murmured. He spoke more English than Venus thought, and he understood plenty, but he’d decided it was prudent to pretend he had yet to master English. It was also prudent not to mention that he was ten years old when he and some friends had sneaked into the famous Maracana Stadium and watched her perform. He could still remember the hard-on she’d given him that night.
Growing up in a two-room shack with seven brothers and sisters, no father, and a mother who lived only for Carnival, Jorge had been forced to take care of himself. At the age of ten he’d started stealing from tourists in Rio, and from fourteen on he’d been robbing and fucking them, picking up a smattering of English along the way. The moment he’d stashed away enough money, he’d gotten himself a passport and purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. At least he had ambition.
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