Lady Boss

by Jackie Collins

  Gino shrugged, sipped more wine, and shook his head. ‘Yeah, you’re my daughter all right. You’re a Santangelo.’

  With a smile she charmed him. ‘Was there ever any question?’

  Three hours later they’d finished two bottles of wine, eaten a mound of spaghetti and clam sauce, dallied with a dishful of home-made pastries, and were now on hot, whisky-soaked Irish coffees.

  ‘Cholesterol heaven!’ Lucky murmured happily. ‘Are you sure you’re supposed to do this at your age?’

  He winked. ‘I’m forty-five, remember?’

  She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. ‘I do love you, Gino… uh… Daddy.’ It was only on very special occasions that she called him daddy.

  Basking in her affection, he said, ‘It’s mutual, kid. You never doubted it, didja?’

  Yes, lots of times, she wanted to say. When Mommy was murdered and you withdrew from your children. And how about the time you paid to marry me off to Senator Richmond’s dumb son when I was only sixteen? And shutting me out of the family business. And treating me like women were an inferior species. And marrying that Beverly Hills bitch Susan Martino and almost adopting her scuzzy, fully grown children…

  Oh yes, there were plenty of bad memories. But now things couldn’t be better. They were a team. And somehow she knew it would never change.

  Chapter 9

  ‘You’ve been edgy for the last three days,’ Mary-Lou said, massaging Steven’s left foot. ‘What is it, honey? Are you ever going to tell me, or have I just got to carry on tiptoeing around your bad mood like a zombie?’

  Steven roused himself from Johnny Carson’s television monologue. ‘What bad mood are you talking about?’

  Mary-Lou dropped his foot and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Either you’re going to tell me, or you’re not. Obviously you’re not, so quit with the short answers and long silences, otherwise I am out of here.’ She raised her voice. ‘You hear me, Steven? O-U-T.’

  He looked faintly amused. ‘Where would you go?’

  ‘Go? Me? I’m a star, honey, I can go where I want. So there!’

  Lazily he reached for her. ‘With that big belly?’

  She pulled away. ‘Don’t try an’ sweet-talk me now. You’re too late.’

  His hands found their way to her swollen breasts, where they lingered.

  She didn’t move. A good sign. Maybe he could short-stop a fight and get lost in her warmness. He needed comforting and nurturing – not a damned argument.

  ‘Steven,’ she murmured in a low voice that was neither denial nor acceptance.

  With practised ease he continued to fondle her breasts, springing one of them free from the confines of a lacy nightgown, and bending his head to play small circling games with his tongue.

  ‘Steven Berkeley,’ she sighed breathlessly, ‘I really hate you.’

  There was no more talking after that. Three years of marriage and they were both still hopelessly turned on by each other.

  On television Johnny Carson continued to entertain.

  In the Berkeley household no one was watching.

  The next morning Mary-Lou was up first. She showered, dressed in a sensible tracksuit, and sat on the side of the bed waiting for Steven to wake up.

  He rolled into consciousness, foggily aware it was Saturday, his favourite day.

  As soon as he opened his eyes Mary-Lou pounced. ‘About time, lover boy,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Now let’s continue that conversation we never finished last night.’

  Piece by piece she dragged it out of him until eventually he confided the whole story to her. What else could he do? She was relentless when it came to extracting information.

  He told her about Deena Swanson and their bizarre meeting. And then he told her about Jerry – the fool – who’d laughed the whole thing off and claimed they were dealing with a crazy woman, and no way was he handing back a million-bucks retainer, no damn way.

  ‘Perhaps she is crazy,’ Mary-Lou mused. ‘She must be, to even tell you she’s considering murdering someone. I’m sure she’s putting you on.’

  ‘Great. Just great. You’re sure she’s putting us on,’ Steven replied sarcastically, jumping out of bed. ‘That solves everything. Now I can go about my business with a clear conscience.’ He stalked into the bathroom. ‘Let’s not worry about the poor victim, huh?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘There is no victim,’ Mary-Lou pointed out.

  ‘Yet,’ Steven replied ominously.

  ‘And there won’t be.’

  He was annoyed. ‘For chrissakes, Mary-Lou. Don’t come off as if you know what the hell you’re talking about.’

  Slamming the bathroom door he stared at himself in the mirror. Satisfied? his inner voice lectured, you’ve betrayed a client-lawyer confidence, and hurt your pregnant wife’s feelings. All in one morning too. How clever can you get?

  By the time he emerged, Mary-Lou had left the house, leaving behind a terse note saying she would not be back until late.

  Steven was really pissed off. They always spent Saturdays together, shopping for food, catching a movie, dropping by Bloomingdales, and finally, when they came home and she began to do things around the house, he was able to collapse on the couch in front of the television and watch sport.

  Now their day was ruined thanks to Mrs. Deena Swanson.

  He considered calling Jerry and telling him exactly what he could do with Deena Swanson’s million bucks. But then again, maybe Jerry was right: maybe they should keep the money and wait for nothing to happen. Deena Swanson was no dangerous killer. She was a very rich woman with a grudge against someone – and there was no way she was ever going to go through with her plan to commit the perfect murder.

  Besides, what could either he or Jerry do? Talk was talk, and lawyer-client privilege was supposed to be sacrosanct.

  So why had he spilled the goods to Mary-Lou and spoiled a perfect day?

  Because it bothered him. He didn’t like it. He felt caught in a trap.

  On the other hand, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  Impulsively he picked up the phone and dialled Lucky’s number. He hadn’t seen her in a few weeks and he wouldn’t mind talking to her. She was something else, his half-sister – a really incredible woman who’d added so much to his life, especially since the death of Carrie, his mother, who’d died peacefully in her sleep of a heart attack.

  He really missed Carrie. She’d raised him alone, and in spite of terrible beginnings had managed to give him a sense of values, a great education, and a chance to succeed.

  For many years she’d lied to him about his father – claimed that he’d died when Steven was a small boy. One day he’d found out the truth. His real father was Gino Santangelo, a man Carrie had slept with only once, and never told the result of that union.

  The truth was difficult to accept, for Gino too, but gradually, over the last eighteen months, they’d forged a relationship. Hardly father and son, but a strong bond of mutual respect.

  Lucky was different. She’d accepted him as her half-brother with immediate warmth. And when Carrie was alive she’d embraced her into the family too. He would always love Lucky for that. She was a very special woman.

  The answering machine picked up at her apartment. Steven left a message and then tried Gino. ‘How about lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘What is it with my kids this week?’ Gino demanded gruffly. ‘I got Paige in town. Don’t that mean nothin’ to any of you?’

  Steven was delighted to be called one of Gino’s kids. It was taking time but he was getting there. ‘How about I buy you both lunch?’ he suggested.

  ‘When Paige is here I don’t eat,’ Gino replied. ‘Y’know how it is.’

  ‘Hey, sorry I asked.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, call me Monday.’

  * * *

  Paige Wheeler wore a lacy brown garter belt, silk stockings, very high heels, a push-up bra, and nothing else. Although nearing fifty, she was still
a very attractive woman with her pocket Venus figure, abundance of copper-coloured frizzy hair, husky voice, and sensual smile.

  Gino, who’d had more women in his life than most rock stars, couldn’t get enough of her. To him she was the perfect companion to grow old with – a smart, sassy broad who appreciated Frank Sinatra, enjoyed sex, and could hold a more than decent conversation.

  ‘Who was that?’ Paige asked as soon as he put the phone down.

  ‘Steven. He wanted to take us to lunch. I told him to forget it.’

  ‘Why?’ She paraded in front of him, spreading her legs in a dancer’s stance.

  ‘Why the hell d’you think?’ he replied, grabbing her. ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re one hot number?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, you, Gino. Constantly. And I love it.’

  He put his hand down the top of her stocking. ‘Get on your knees an’ say that.’

  ‘If you insist. However, let me remind you – a lady never speaks with her mouth full!’

  When they were done, Gino collapsed on the bed, his heart pounding at a roaring pace.

  Better take it easy, old man, he warned himself. You’re not as young as you used to be.

  No shit?

  When his heart resumed its normal rhythm he remembered Steven, and regretted being so abrupt with him. Reaching for the phone he called him back. There was no reply.

  Paige slept face down on his rumpled bed. The woman was an original. No shadows of the past to haunt him when she was around.

  He got up and went to his dresser, unlocked the top right-hand drawer, and took out a Harry Winston box. Opening it, he gazed at an Elizabeth Taylor-sized diamond ring.

  He’d bought Paige gifts before – usually from Forty-seventh Street, where he had connections and could get a deal. But this ring was different. This ring he’d gotten retail.

  If Paige wanted it she could have it. There was only one small catch. If she wanted it, she had to divorce Wheeler – no more excuses – and marry him.

  Gino Santangelo had waited long enough.

  * * *

  Brigette was counting the weeks until vacation. June 15 and she was a free person for the rest of the summer. What a relief to escape the daily grind of suffocating, boring school. She’d already spoken to her grandmother about spending a good chunk of her vacation with Lennie and Lucky.

  Charlotte had not objected. ‘Whatever you like, dear,’ she’d said vaguely, probably thrilled to be rid of her.

  Sitting in English class Brigette daydreamed about all the fun she’d have. There had to be more than getting up in the morning, mingling with a bunch of stupid, unfriendly girls, and listening to a succession of uninspiring teachers drone on about nothing that interested her. Malibu with Lennie and Lucky was sure to be a major blast.

  ‘Stanislopoulos!’ Mr. Louthe, her English teacher, interrupted her reverie. He was a grey-haired man with ferret teeth and a droopy moustache. ‘What did I just say?’ he asked sharply.

  Brigette looked at him blankly. ‘Huh?’

  Two of her classmates whispered an exaggerated huh at each other and giggled.

  ‘Silence!’ Mr. Louthe said sternly. ‘See me after class, Stanislopoulos.’

  She groaned inwardly. She’d be late for tennis practice – her one pleasure. And Mr. Louthe was notorious for his sanctimonious lectures.

  After the class was over she went and stood by his desk. He was attending to paperwork and made her wait for fifteen minutes. Finally he looked up. ‘Stanislopoulos,’ he said, ‘I’ll make this brief.’

  Thank goodness, she thought.

  ‘You are an intelligent girl. A pretty girl—’

  Oh, no! Was he coming on to her? After Santino Bonnatti she was never going to allow anybody to do anything to her again – unless she wanted them to.

  ‘And you are also an extremely isolated and unsociable girl.’

  Thanks a lot! she thought sourly.

  ‘In life,’ Mr. Louthe continued in a sonorous tone, ‘there is always a price to pay. And I do not mean a monetary price. You must realize, young lady, that with all your money and connections, you will not end up a very happy person if you go through your days and weeks and months living in your own cocooned little space. Learning, sharing, reading, mixing with other people, giving of yourself – these are all growth experiences. Learn to grow, Miss Stanislopoulos, and your life may have some meaning. Thank you. You are dismissed.’ He bent his head and resumed work.

  Brigette was stunned. How dare he talk to her like that! She knew how to learn – only it wasn’t something she cared to do. She knew how to share – but why should she? And as for mixing with other people – well, it was they who didn’t want to mix with her… wasn’t it?

  Returning to the dormitory she continued to fume. What did he know about her life anyway? What did he care?

  Dumb man.

  Dumb old man.

  Dumb old man with a stupid moustache!

  Inexplicably she began to cry, and suddenly it was a deluge of tears, as if all the pain and frustration and hurt of the last few years came pouring out.

  It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d cried since Tim Wealth’s death and the ensuing nightmare events.

  When the tears were over she felt better, until she noticed Nona, one of her more recent roommates, standing inside the door. God! On top of everything else she would now have a reputation as a crybaby.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Nona asked, sounding sympathetic.

  Brigette rubbed her eyes. ‘Just a choking fit – nothing terminal.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Nona said casually. ‘I get ’em all the time. Especially when I have to endure one of Louthe’s lectures.’

  ‘It wasn’t too bad.’

  Suddenly they were having a conversation, something Brigette had managed to avoid until now.

  ‘OK,’ Nona said brightly, ‘I’m out of here. I’ve got a pass for town.’ She picked up her purse and hesitated for a moment. ‘You wouldn’t like to come, would you?’

  Normally Brigette would have said no and that would have been that. But today was different. Today was the start of something new – making friends.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she answered shyly.

  Nona was surprised. The other girls would kill her for dragging along the poor little rich kid – but she couldn’t help it, Brigette looked so lost and lonely.

  ‘Come on,’ she said warmly, grabbing her by the arm. ‘I don’t know about you, but the sooner I’m out of this prison the better.’

  Chapter 10

  It was a go situation and Lucky felt incredibly elated. First she made a short trip to London by Concorde to visit Bobby. He was in fine shape, small and handsome with an endearing British accent. Gino would have a shit fit!

  After visiting Bobby, she flew out to Los Angeles to spend a couple of days with Lennie before embarking on her adventure. If she was to vanish successfully for six weeks everything had to be carefully coordinated.

  Arriving at their rented house in Malibu, she was met by Miko, their diminutive Japanese houseboy. Miko informed her he was expecting Mr. Golden home at seven.

  She was pleased. She’d told Lennie she wasn’t flying out until Sunday, figuring a surprise would enhance the mood nicely. Now she’d have time to relax for a few hours.

  ‘OK, Miko,’ she said, handing him a wad of bills. ‘Here’s five hundred bucks to do a vanishing act. This’ll pay for your hotel and expenses. I don’t want to see you for forty-eight hours. Do we understand each other?’

  Miko accepted the money with a small, formal bow. ‘I am gone, Madame,’ he said in perfect English.

  With Miko out of the way, she threw open the doors to the beach, plumped up the cushions on the large rattan couches, put Luther Vandross on the stereo, called Trader Vic’s and requested Lennie’s favourite Indonesian lamb roast to be delivered at nine p.m., and prepared a mean margarita mix.

  When that was all done she indulged in a leisurely
shower and slipped white shorts and T-shirt over nothing. Lucky rarely bothered with underclothes, she didn’t see the point. Piling her long dark hair atop her head, she added a touch more gloss to her lips, and tawny blusher to accentuate her sharply defined cheekbones.

  In her mid-thirties Lucky Santangelo had only grown more beautiful – a beauty she treated very casually, for ego was not her thing.

  The beach looked inviting. It was almost dusk and several people jogged along the shoreline with their dogs while a single swimmer braved the cool Pacific Ocean.

  She’d only spent a few weekends at the house, but there was something about it she was beginning to get attached to. It was so peaceful and quiet. You couldn’t hear the cars racing by on the nearby Pacific Coast Highway, only the soothing rhythm of the waves hitting the beach.

  Maybe they should buy it, she mused. Not that she was crazy about California, but once she owned Panther Studios they would obviously be spending more time there.

  Mental note: call the real estate agent and find out if the house was for sale.

  It was nearing seven. She blended the margaritas, poured hers into a tall frosted glass, and sat outside on the deck overlooking the beach.

  Luther serenaded her with ‘Superstar’.

  Leaning back, she closed her eyes and drifted off into a jet-lagged sleep.

  * * *

  Cristi was definitely coming on to him in her all-California-girl way. She’d been doing it throughout the day. Nothing too overwhelming, but Lennie was more than aware of her interest.

  ‘I’m takin’ the twist to Spago, why don’t you come with us?’ Joey suggested, enjoying the possibilities. He referred to all women as twists or grunts. The twists were the delectable ones, and Cristi was certainly edible.

  Lennie said no.

  ‘You prefer drivin’ back to an empty beach house rather than a fine pizza with two of your best friends?’ Joey tried to look hurt. The expression did not take.