Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge

by Jackie Collins

  When Santino Bonnatti had abused her, there’d been a weapon at hand and she’d used it, never experiencing a moment of remorse.

  There’d been nothing to fight Michel with; she’d had no choice but to lie there and take it.

  When she’d gotten home, Zan and Nona were asleep. She’d crept into the bathroom, standing under a long, cleansing shower before crawling miserably into bed—where she’d lain awake for hours before falling into a troubled sleep.

  Now it was morning and she could hear Nona and Zan in the kitchen. She realized she’d better get up. Be cool, she warned herself. Don’t tell them what happened. It could spoil everything.

  She climbed out of bed and reached for her robe, noticing purple bruises on her wrists. Looking down, she was dismayed to discover more bruises on her ankles and the insides of her thighs. She wrapped the robe around herself, pulling it tight.

  “Hmm…” Nona said, glancing up when Brigette entered the kitchen. “What happened to you last night?”

  Did Nona suspect? No. It was just her way of eliciting information.

  “Nothing much,” she said vaguely, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of milk.

  Nona was determined to find out everything. “Don’t give me that nothing much bit. Did he jump you? Did the great lover get it on?”

  “No…” Brigette said evasively. “He was a gentleman.”

  “Michel—a gentleman?” Nona snorted. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Brigette poured herself a cup of coffee. Although she appeared outwardly calm, inside she was shaking.

  She sat down at the table and picked up a newspaper. Zan beamed at her. Nothing ever bothered him.

  “Okay, so you don’t want to talk,” Nona said, a little bit put out. “C’mon, Zan, we’ve got to go over to my parents’ this morning.” She turned to Brigette. “Don’t forget to drop by Antonio’s studio today to meet the stylist, makeup, and hair people. It’s all been arranged.”

  Brigette nodded. “Okay.”

  “Here’s the address,” Nona said, handing her a slip of paper. “Shall I meet you there?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “We’re catching the new Al Pacino movie tonight. Wanna come?”

  “I…I don’t think so.”

  “Hmm…” Nona said disapprovingly. “Seeing Michel again?”

  “No, thought I’d get an early night, y’know—what with the shoot tomorrow…” She trailed off, wishing Nona would leave already.

  “Good thinking,” Nona said briskly, grabbing Zan’s hand. “By the way, my parents are planning another one of their little bashes next Friday. Keep it free.”

  As soon as Nona and Zan left, she picked up the phone and called Isaac, the model from the Rock ’n’ Roll Jeans shoot.

  He sounded as if he were asleep. Too bad. “Remember me?” she said brightly. “Brigette Brown, your partner in jeans.”

  “Hey—baby,” he said, rousing himself. “Gotta say I had a blast that day.”

  “I need a favor,” she said, getting right to it.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I can’t discuss it over the phone. Can we meet for lunch?”

  “Sure,” Isaac said, suggesting a small Italian restaurant on Second Avenue.

  Brigette arrived first and waited outside, impatiently walking up and down the sidewalk.

  Isaac pulled up five minutes later on a secondhand Harley. He parked it on the street and gave her a big embrace, as if they’d been friends for years. He looked like a rap star with his ratted hair and baggy clothes. “I was gonna call you,” he said. “You got there first, girl.”

  “I’m good at that,” she said, summoning a small smile.

  A pretty young black woman greeted Isaac at the entrance with a familiar “How’s it goin’, man?”

  “Everything’s cool, Sadie,” he replied.

  Ignoring Brigette, Sadie led them to a window table and handed Isaac menus.

  “She’s got a thing for me,” Isaac confided as Sadie walked away. “It’s kinda dumb shit, her bein’ married to the owner an’ all. No use dissin’ him—this bein’ the best pasta in the city. I get off on their spaghetti an’ clam sauce. Wanna try some?”

  The thought of food made her stomach turn. She studied the menu anyway. “Maybe I’ll just have a salad.”

  He settled back. “Did’ja see the pictures?”

  “I did. You look good.”

  “Only good?” he said ruefully. “How ’bout fine, baby? Real fly an’ fine.”

  She smiled again. Had to keep smiling, otherwise she’d break down and cry. “Okay—fine.”

  “Hey—” he said. “I heard they’re takin’ the big billboard in Times Square.”

  “Yes, I heard that, too.”

  Sadie returned, pencil poised. “The usual, Isaac?”

  He winked at her. “Ya got it, babe. An’ my friend’ll have a Caesar.” As soon as she walked away he said, “So what’s the favor?”

  Brigette leaned toward him, big blue eyes wide and appealing. “Can you get me a gun?”

  “Hey—whoa!” he said, throwing his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What gave you the idea I can get you a gun?”

  “You told me the other day if I needed anything in the city, you were the person to ask.”

  “Sheeit! An’ I thought you were into me for my baaad personality.”

  “Can you get one?” she repeated.

  He pulled at his ratted hair, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “What’re you gonna do with a gun?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  “It’s for protection.”

  “You carry a piece, baby, you gotta know how to use it.”

  “Maybe you’ll teach me.”

  His eyes darted to a nearby table where a man and a woman sat. Satisfied they weren’t listening, he mumbled, “Lemme see what I can deliver.”

  Sadie returned with their order, slamming Brigette’s salad in front of her with a surly glare.

  Isaac shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “’S’good,” he said. “How’s your salad?”

  She forced herself to choke down a lettuce leaf. “Fine.”

  “No, baby,” he joked. “I’m fine.” Adding a cavalier, “’So…you wanna go dancin’ tonight? Hit the bars? Chow down on some soul food?”

  “Sorry, I’m booked,” she said, hoping her refusal to go out with him wouldn’t come between her and a gun. “Another time would be great.”

  After lunch, she took a cab over to the famous Italian photographer, Antonio’s, studio.

  A businesslike young man ushered her into a side dressing room and in reverential tones said, “Shh…we mustn’t disturb Antonio, he’s shooting. I’ll let everyone know you’re here.”

  She sat down in front of a large makeup mirror studded with tiny theatrical lights and stared at her reflection. She didn’t look any different. She certainly didn’t look as degraded and debauched as she felt. In fact, she looked exactly the same.

  Only she wasn’t the same. She was used goods. Debased by that French pig and his vile girlfriend.

  After a few minutes, Antonio’s favorite makeup artist, Raoul, came in to check her out. Raoul was Puerto Rican with a thick, greased pompadour and arched eyebrows. “Antonio likes the idea of a retro look,” Raoul said, studying her reflection in the mirror. “I’m into thin eyebrows. We will pluck yours out and pencil them in high and sharp. Then I shall give you beautiful cheekbones and full, ruby lips.”

  Norris, the hairdresser, entered next. Norris was tall, with a pale complexion and long fair hair worn in a braid down his back. “Maybe we cut your hair and dye it black,” he said, standing next to Raoul, both of them thoroughly inspecting her in the mirror.

  She felt like an object. “Maybe not,” she said quickly.

  “Excuse me?” Norris said, hands on hips, not used to an unknown girl answering back.

  “I refuse to cut my hair,” she said stubbornly.

  “
And may I ask why?” Norris asked in a Who do you think you are? voice.

  “I have a contract with Rock ’n’ Roll Jeans. They don’t want me to.”

  “Oh,” he said huffily. “In that case, sweetie, I’ll have to put you in a black wig.”

  “This is my first cover and it’s important I present my own image, not your idea of how I should look,” Brigette said, surprising herself.

  Both men glared at her. How dare she have an opinion? She was a model. Models were supposed to look good, shut up, and listen to the experts.

  “Does Michel know you have this feeling?” Raoul said with a bitchy edge.

  “Michel’s my agent, not my keeper,” she snapped.

  Raoul and Norris exchanged raised-eyebrow looks and stalked from the room—obviously to report to the great Antonio that she was a difficult little bitch.

  Parker, the stylist, came in next. She was a tall woman with close-cropped gray hair and a bored smile. “I hear you’re giving Tic and Tac a hard time,” she said in a gravelly voice.

  “I’m speaking my mind,” Brigette said wearily, deciding she’d had about all she could take.

  “Ignore them,” Parker said breezily. “The important thing is what you’re going to wear. Hmm…” She narrowed her eyes and stood back. “I see a very contemporary look. How about this?” She plucked a short white Ungaro dress off a rail packed with clothes. “And with it—these faux tiger-skin shoes,” she added, sweeping down and choosing them from a box full of footwear. “Very now. No jewelry. Pure and simple.”

  “I like it,” Brigette said.

  “Good, I thought you’d throw me out, too.”

  “I’m not trying to be awkward,” Brigette explained. “I simply feel I must have some say in the image I present.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Parker replied briskly. “Although I should warn you, Antonio has very strong ideas, so don’t be nervous tomorrow when he starts telling you exactly how he sees you. He’s shooting Robertson now—do you want to take a peek?”

  Brigette felt a shudder of revulsion. She never wanted to set eyes on Robertson again. “No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I have another appointment.”

  “I’ll tell Antonio. As soon as he takes a break he’ll be in to see you.”

  “Do I have to wait?”

  “If you want Antonio to shoot your cover tomorrow. He’s very temperamental.”

  “So am I,” Brigette muttered.

  “What?” said Parker, not quite sure she’d heard correctly.

  “Nothing.”

  Antonio entered five minutes later, Raoul and Norris hovering behind him. He was a short, flamboyant Italian whose big specialty was photographing major superstars. Brigette remembered coming to his studio with her mother when she was ten. He’d photographed them both for a mother/daughter photo spread in Harper’s Bazaar. He’d fawned all over Olympia and ignored her. She was not about to remind him.

  “You have the problem?” he asked, glaring at her with beady eyes.

  She glared right back. “Only if you think it’s a problem that I want to look like myself on my first cover.”

  Antonio shrugged; what did he care? It wasn’t worth a fight for one measly cover. And this girl was naturally pretty, she’d do.

  “Is okay,” he said, sending Raoul and Norris into a major snit. “Ten tomorrow. You don’t be late.”

  “He liked you,” Parker said gleefully when he’d left.

  “I couldn’t care less,” Brigette replied. And it was true—one night and all her dreams were smashed, broken into a thousand pieces. She was tired of being the helpless victim. From now on she realized she had to force herself to be as hard and unfeeling as everyone around her. No more Miss Sweetness—she was on the road to recovering her self-esteem—and if she had to be tough to do it, then so be it.

  36

  PALM SPRINGS WAS A PLEASANT HAVEN. GINO WAS crazy about his grandkids and spent every moment with them while his wife, Paige, sat back with an indulgent smile. Paige, who was in her fifties, was still an extremely attractive and very sexy woman.

  On Sunday she and Lucky sat out by the pool, watching Gino splash with little Maria in the shallow end while baby Gino kicked his legs on a blanket under a striped beach umbrella.

  “You should bring them here more often, Lucky,” Paige said, sipping a piña colada through a straw. “Gino loves spending time with them.”

  Lucky gazed out at the world through black Porsche shades. “You’re right, I will.”

  “It’ll make him so happy.”

  Lucky picked up a Diet Coke. “Y’know, Paige,” she said reflectively, “seeing you and Gino together makes me feel good, you’re really great for him. You keep him in line, and that ain’t easy!”

  Paige smiled softly. “Gino’s the love of my life,” she said simply. “I can’t imagine why it took me so long to make a decision.”

  “Well, you did have a husband in the way,” Lucky pointed out.

  “Yes…that was a touch difficult. However, your father is a very persistent man.”

  “Nooo?” Lucky joked.

  “I wish I’d known him when he was young,” Paige continued. “Or maybe not, I’d probably never have lived to tell the tale.”

  Lucky agreed. “He told me the other day I should make a movie of his life. I said there wasn’t a rating that would cover it.”

  They both laughed.

  Gino walked over, holding Maria’s hand. “The kid an’ me, we’re goin’ shoppin’,” he announced.

  “Shopping? It’s ninety-two degrees,” Paige said, her copper-colored hair hidden beneath a large straw hat. “Why not wait until later?”

  Gino patted her on the thigh—a move not lost on Lucky. Ah…Gino the Ram—he’d probably still be at it when he was ninety!

  “The kid an’ I are gonna buy a puppy,” Gino said, fixing Lucky with an accusing look. “It seems you promised.”

  “I forgot,” Lucky said with a sudden flash of guilt.

  “Gonna get a doggie, Mommy,” Maria singsonged proudly.

  “Shall I come, too?” Lucky asked.

  “No, kid, stay here with Paige—discuss girl things. Maria an’ me—we got a lot to talk about.”

  Maria giggled uncontrollably.

  “Okay, honey, let Cee Cee put you in your shorts and top, then you can go with Grandpa.”

  “Doggie!” Maria screamed excitedly, jumping up and down. “We go get doggie!”

  Lucky watched Maria run off to change. She was trying hard to relax and clear her mind. It was difficult letting go, but she was determined to have these few days of peace before battle. And there would be a battle—for she had no intention of allowing her studio to be taken over without a fight.

  Before leaving L.A. she’d tried calling Morton Sharkey at home and his office. He’d changed his home number, and an embarrassed secretary in his office informed her that Mr. Sharkey was unavailable.

  Yeah. Sure.

  Morton Sharkey was behaving like a very naughty boy. And naughty boys got punished. Big time.

  When Maria was dressed, Lucky walked out to the car with her and Gino. “Don’t choose a large dog,” she warned Gino as he lifted Maria into his blue station wagon, securing her in her own special car seat. “I can’t deal with some giant monster roaming around my house.”

  Gino cocked his head to one side. “What’s the matter, kid—you don’t trust me?”

  She laughed and hugged him. “Of course I do,” she said, feeling sentimental.

  “Then leave it to us, we got good sense.”

  When she returned to the pool, Paige asked if she wanted to go to the golf club for lunch. She declined. Much as she liked Paige and found her amusing company, sitting around at a golf club eating lunch with the ladies was not exactly her idea of a good time.

  Besides, she had too much on her mind.

  Nobody was getting away with taking Panther from her. Nobody.

  Venus was rehearsing. Clad in a white
leotard, her hair piled on top of her head, and wearing no makeup, she sweated along with her talented troupe of dancers. She loved shooting her videos—discovering the right moves, creating a mini scenario. She regarded her videos as three-minute movies. It was always a challenge coming up with something new, raw, and exciting.

  This time she was using Dorian Loui, a young Chinese choreographer recommended by Ron. Dorian had created a smoky, mysterious bar setting in which Venus would slink up and down the line from man to man, seducing them one by one, dropping an item of clothing at each stop. Exactly the kind of deal she was into. Sinful sex, glossily packaged. The secret of her brilliant career.

  True to her word, she’d included Rodriguez in the video. He was man number eight—the last in line. He’d arrived at rehearsal dressed as if he were going to lunch at the Bistro Gardens. She’d taken one look and sent him out to get rehearsal clothes. Now, clad in a tank top and shorts, he was really into it. And Dorian was really into him.

  “Forget it,” she whispered in Dorian’s ear during a break. “This one is definitely straight.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Dorian. “And such manly thighs!”

  She hadn’t heard about her test yet. Freddie said he hoped to know by Monday. “It’s a done deal, Freddie,” she’d wanted to tell him. But she’d held back; wouldn’t do to look too cocky.

  Since she’d thrown Cooper out, career-wise things seemed to be moving in a better direction. She was delighted with the video of Sin—it should be another controversial sensation—exactly what the public expected from her. And if she landed the role in Gangsters, it would give a new dimension to her career. Working with Alex Woods was a definite coup; it sent out the message that if she was good enough for Alex Woods, she was good enough for anybody.

  She’d invited Ron for lunch. He arrived on the set five minutes after Anthony, who’d appeared with her mail and phone messages.

  “I believe you two know each other,” she said, throwing a towel around her neck as she strode from the set.

  Ron caught up with her on the way out. “You’re a naughty little girl,” he scolded. “What are you trying to do?”