Her shoulders tightened, and he wondered once again just how much of her seduction had been about regaining the control these creepers had taken away from her.
That’s when Cherry’s book came back to him—Rochelle was reminding him a whole lot of how the wannabe starlet had lived her life. Funny that it was a damned book that was giving Gideon more insight into Rochelle than anything else.
She turned to face him. “I told you before that I hated letting the first creeper know that they had the power to keep me under lock and key. It’s not right, Gideon.”
Bingo. “But you’re going out for those interviews.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You did say that showing up some place unannounced is fine because the creepers wouldn’t anticipate where I was.”
“And that’s what you’re doing with your media schedule.”
“What if I’m talking about more than interviews?”
She’d gotten that gangbusters gleam in her eye. He couldn’t help thinking that it looked like a stadium-powered light bulb had gone on in there.
“What’re you thinking?” he asked.
“That I don’t care how much it costs, but if I don’t stand up to these little assholes, I’m showing them that I’m a coward.”
Yup, back to this. And it seemed the sex had only pushed her in this rebellious direction.
Goddammit, if only they’d had a chance to screw, that might’ve relaxed her. “There’s a difference between being a coward and someone who makes wise decisions, Rochelle.”
“And I know which one I feel like—a coward.” She held up a finger. “You know what I’d love to do? Go someplace public and spontaneous, just to party it up and show I don’t have a care in the world, then post pictures to my social media pages so everyone can see that I’m not going to bow to any creepers.”
Cherry all the way—at least from what he’d read about her so far.
Rochelle seemed encouraged that he’d kept his tongue. “My cousins would surround me in a heartbeat because they don’t like anyone dictating the terms of their lives, either. And there’s you and Harry—and I don’t give a crap how much you’d have to raise your fees . . .”
That last part didn’t even compute. In this job, he’d guarded a lot of men and women who routinely went in public when the danger level was high—that’s the reason they hired him. So why was he second-guessing Rochelle when what she was going through wasn’t nearly as lethal as other situations he’d been in?
At least not yet . . .
But he knew what set Rochelle apart from the rest for him—some kind of emotional attachment caused by their childhood and his admiration for her family. And a bit of fondness for her.
Nothing more.
“Whatever you decide, Boss,” he said without expression, already distancing himself, already putting the last, pulse-banging hour with her out of sight and out of mind, where it belonged.
Rochelle smiled at him, maybe a little too brightly. “Glad to hear it, because you know what?”
He merely stared at her as she confirmed every bit of what he’d been thinking about her motivations.
“Cherry sure as hell wouldn’t have let anyone tell her what to do, either.”
She walked out of the room and out of sight . . . but hardly out of mind.
***
Cherry shut the door to the downtown Vegas hotel suite behind her and faced George Diluccio, a mob guy whose eye she’d caught at the beginning of the year. He’d moved her into the Palm Palace Hotel, where he worked under Nicky Aiolfi, who ran the casino for the Donati family back East.
She stripped off her leather gloves, competing for his attention with the television, where The Man from U.N.C.L.E. was blaring over Rolling Stones music from the party he was throwing outside.
“You missed my little show,” she said, tossing the gloves onto the sheet-ruffled bed, where blue light from the TV played and George’s suit jacket lay bunched near the pillows. Shadows flitted around the mosquito netting and silken Arabian drapes decorating the spacious room, making things moody and exotic.
As she pushed back her red-dyed hair from her face, he spared her a silent glance. He’d been drinking again; she could tell because his craggy face was slack. Also, the barber had visited today, and George’s dark hair, which should’ve been pomaded, was out of place. He’d been agitating his fingers through it.
“Sheesh,” she said, moving toward the TV. “You’ve got your friends out there. You think it’d be nice to give them a hi since you invited them in the first place?”
“If I wanted a nagging wife here, I would’ve brought her.”
Cherry thought of shutting off the idiot box, but she kind of liked looking at David McCallum playing a mysterious Russian spy. He was a fox if she’d ever seen one. Also, she didn’t want to anger George since he’d smacked her for the first time the night before last, and she wasn’t up for a replay.
Sure, he was under some stress, but if he did it again, she wouldn’t stand for it. Men only got so many chances with her, especially if they had the potential to give her something big. And George had made a lot of promises over the months. He’d lured her in with sweet talk about someday getting her into a Vegas show with someone from the Rat Pack—Frank and/or Dean—or maybe introducing her to Ann-Margret or Shirley MacLaine, so-called Rat Pack Mascots, so they could ease Cherry’s way into the movies.
No dice on any count. More and more it seemed like Cherry had made another bad investment in a man, and George’s latest troubles had her itching to get out.
But she still sidled up to him, mainly because she didn’t like to be ignored. As she moved, she reached in back of her to untie her indecent leather halter, which topped some little-to-the-imagination hot pants and fab boots. “You should be at your own party, baby. Even if Dean didn’t show up like you thought he might, there was a director out there watching me. He did a Western. One of those might be fun to work on, don’t you think?”
She dropped the halter, and George’s gaze immediately attached itself to her tits. Knowing she’d hooked him and subsequently bored now, she acted as if all she wanted to do was get undressed. She worked the halter off, peeled the hot pants down her legs, all the while wiggling her goods. She took off the boots last.
“What did the director say when he saw you?” George asked, resting his hand at his suit’s belt. Usually, he got a sexual kick out of watching her dance for his friends, just as much as Cherry the exhibitionist loved doing it. But not tonight.
“He left before I could say hi.” She pouted. “You said Dean would be here, though. You keep promising to introduce me.”
Another possible sugar daddy, another Jason Vandecamp, another Elvis, another of the many men who could’ve fed Cherry’s ambitions if they’d only cooperated.
“Hell, baby,” George said, “I never know when Dean’s gonna blow into town, so forget about him. Come here.”
She left her leather on the floor and slid onto George’s lap, where he had a surprise package in his pants for her. Or maybe not such a surprise. At least not a big one.
Every time she went to bed with men like George, she always hoped she’d feel something, but she never did.
Someday, she kept thinking. Someday she would have it all: the career, the fame, the love.
He fondled her breast, and Cherry listened to the music outside, where someone had changed the record to a Beatles album. She wondered when they’d be in town.
“Georgie,” she murmured. “When you gonna come outside and play?”
He stopped toying with her, his hand dropping to his lap, where his package had deflated.
“I told you before,” he said. “I don’t have any need to go out of this room for the time being.”
“Baby, I understand why you’d want to stay in the hotel, but it’s been a couple days now since you
got word about how the boss back East thinks you skimmed money from the casino.”
“A couple days isn’t anything, Cherry,” he said glumly.
“Nicky said everything was copasetic so . . .”
He gripped her arm. “Are you saying I’m afraid to go anywhere?”
There was that voice again—the one he’d used the night Nicky had spoken with him about the skimming and just before he’d smacked her.
“I’m not saying anything,” she said calmly. “You’re my brave man, Georgie.”
With as much grace as she could muster, she stood from his lap, turned around, and rolled her eyes. He’d become such a snore, and it wasn’t only because of his temper. She could easily take care of that by purchasing some ingredients for brownies at the market and seeing what would happen if she slipped Milk of Magnesia into them. Of course, she’d have to split out of state after that because George would whoop her. But Tommy would help her escape like he always did when she got into a spot of trouble, like she had two years ago on that night when one of the Viva Las Vegas crewmen had gotten handsy with her at a hotel room party and Tommy had turned from a shy, sweet kid into a punching machine.
Cherry sashayed across the room and pulled open an armoire, taking out one of her Jackie Kennedy sheaths, stepping into it, then slipping on a pair of heels. She didn’t need the panties.
“Why’re you dressing up?” George asked.
“I want to mingle with your guests since you don’t have a mind to.”
“I’m about to have them kicked out.”
“And then what, Georgie?” She smiled sweetly at him. “Are we going out to a nice, late dinner? A nightclub? Because it’s been forever with both.”
“I told you that—”
“You want to stay in. I know, I know. But I’m not the kind who camps out in a room and listens to what’s happening outside.” She headed for the door.
“Baby . . .” he said, and he sounded as if she was the only consolation he had right now, as if he would perish if she didn’t stay and keep him company from his demons outside the room.
He should’ve thought of how lonely self-imposed exile might be when he’d slapped her.
Before he could protest, she pulled open the door, letting in The Beatles as well as the bustle and fun of a party in full swing.
More silk drapings hovered over the undulating, dancing crowd. Arabian-style moldings decorated the walls and ceiling. The bar, the curved sofas, and the pool table were choked with people, and the huge pillows scattered all over the floor had guests lying on them, smoking, drinking, and dropping acid.
As Cherry shut the door behind her, she spotted Tommy slumped on a sofa where a girl with pale lipstick, flowers painted on her cheek, and butterfly-like fake eyelashes was staring up at him, clearly on a trip.
Tommy, himself, had assumed his destiny these past few months, resembling the artist he’d always told Cherry he was. He had one arm propped on the back of the sofa as he angled away from the hippy chick, and he was holding a smoke-wisped cigarette, a line of ash at its end so long that it was about to drop off into a glass ashtray he’d placed on the ridge of the furniture. His eyes had a hardness to them now, but he kept telling Cherry it was because he was older and had seen things in the city he hadn’t seen as a bellboy. Cherry wanted to know what demons had been driving him, but he’d never talk about it with her.
She walked into his line of sight, and for a moment she thought she saw that gaze brighten into the blue she remembered from his bellboy days, before he’d quit and become a waiter at a sleazy bar so he could “see reality” and do his painting on the side.
“Let’s split,” she said to him.
He’d heard that too many times, and he took a drag off his cigarette. The girl next to him touched his face.
“I love you,” she said.
Tommy ignored her. “George is still bummed out?”
“Wouldn’t you be if someone was talking about punishing you for skimming money?” Wow. She’d just defended George. “He’s not in the mood for a good time, but I am. His so-called friends don’t scare me.”
“That’s because they’re not mad at you.”
“Well, they could be. Who knows? Maybe they’ve talked about kidnapping me to draw him out of that room.”
“You wish,” Tommy said. “At least it’d fulfill your need for drama.”
Cherry frowned at him. “What’s with you?”
“Tonight?” He leaned forward, and the girl next to him shadowed him, still gaping and batting those eyelashes.
From the way he moved, Cherry guessed he’d drunk himself into restless broodiness. And, from the way he talked to her, she did more than guess.
“Listen, Cherry,” he said, pointing that cigarette at her. “I thought you would’ve gotten it in your head by now. George is a destructive force. That asshole hit you—”
“I can handle what he did.” She looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the music was too loud, the partygoers too occupied with themselves.
“Then why do you stay?” Tommy asked, his voice cracking. Then he shook his head. “Don’t tell me. You want to be discovered and be in the movies or a Vegas show because of someone who supposedly has connections. Or maybe your desire to collect males goes deeper than that. Maybe you want a daddy to take the place of the real one you left back in California.”
Cherry gasped. A snap of acknowledgment broke inside her chest. She’d always been that daddy’s girl, and Tommy could be right about her missing the love and attention. But that wasn’t for anyone but her to say.
The girl next to Tommy rubbed her cheek against his long, black sleeve. “I love you.”
“Tommy,” Cherry said, grasping his other arm. “Let’s just go. Please?”
He didn’t move, and she had the feeling that he was taking a stand, that their relationship had turned lately. He was tired of being her lackey.
When she tilted her head and softened her voice, she wasn’t putting on an act like she put on for all the others.
“Please, Tommy. I don’t want to stay inside, not with George.”
He stared straight ahead, as if he were having an argument with himself, and when Cherry touched his shoulder, it was over.
He gently guided the hippy chick all the way back onto the sofa, where she stared at the ceiling with her lips in an O. Then he put out his cigarette.
As Cherry gave a happy hop, turning toward the exit, she caught a glimpse of George across the room, framed by his door, watching her.
She left him standing right there.
That was the last she ever saw of George. Witnesses said they saw him leaving the party, looking as if he had lost something or was following someone outside. But he never returned to his suite. When Cherry spoke to the authorities, she said she had no idea where he’d gone, and why would she? She’d been living it up with Tommy at a Golden Nugget craps table until dawn, and the men running the games remembered her distinctly. She’d parked there all night, winning.
Meanwhile, the desert outside of Vegas stayed quiet, never telling anyone whether George Diluccio, Cherry’s most dangerous conquest, was buried under its sandy surface, compliments of the Donati family.
8
When Rochelle was lobbying for a night on the town, she hadn’t exactly had this place in mind.
She sat in the backseat of the limo with Gideon and Harry, looking out the tinted window at the neon glare of the Pink Ladies Gentlemen’s Club. Judging by the blushed adobe walls, scraggly cactus, and the jolly, breast-loaded neon cowgirl, this was a destination of real class right here north of the Strip.
Gideon had actually made this suggestion, telling her that if she wanted to go out after she completed her rescheduled media interviews, she should do it here. First off, the Pink Ladies was a party place where she could show those c
reepers that she could still have fun in spite of them. Second, she’d even get a good meal, which the owner, Jesse Navarro, would cook for her personally in the kitchen.
But then Gideon had offered the piece de resistance, a suggestion that made Rochelle think he’d been reading Cherry’s book on the sly: Why not make it easy for the press to connect her and Cherry in their articles, taking the media attention off the creepers and onto the subject of the book itself? After all, Cherry was rumored to have frequented this spot back in the sixties when the Pink Ladies had been a supper club called Pierre’s.
Rochelle had acknowledged the wisdom of his words, but more important, she was surprised by his media savvy. Playing on Cherry’s image would spin the public’s attention in the direction of the book and hopefully overshadow the creepers.
If he was reading the book, was he getting more from it than merely Cherry’s story? What kind of other insight was in store for him?
She wasn’t sure she liked the possibilities.
Still gazing at the Pink Ladies, she made small talk. “The parking lot doesn’t look too full.”
Harry said, “It’s early yet. Places like this start to hop way after dark.”
“Too bad Suzanne’s back at the mansion working overtime. She’d get a kick out of this. Once, when we were in New Orleans on Bourbon Street during a tour, she jumped onstage and flashed the audience. Can you believe that?”
Gideon didn’t answer, so Harry did it for them both.
“Grandma Gone Wild,” he said with a smile.
Rochelle looked at Gideon, but he was definitely Le Bodyguard Serieux. His all-business demeanor sent a flicker of frustration through her. Their amorous activities weren’t sitting as well with her as she’d hoped, and it wasn’t because she’d encouraged him to break his body-guarding creed. It was just that right now he was so close yet so far, and having a little of him hadn’t eased any of her desires. In fact, she wanted him more than ever, and having him so near with Harry acting as a block between them was getting to her.
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