Double Lucky (14 page)

The girl Renee had set him up with was half Ethiopian and half Portuguese. She was twenty-nine, six feet tall, and striking in a regal ethnic way. Her name was Tasmin, and according to Renee, she was not a whore, although Anthony wasn't too sure about that. He trusted Renee—but not completely. How had she come up with this exotic creature on such short notice if the girl wasn't a professional?

“Where'd you dig this one up?” he asked Renee when, after dinner, Tasmin excused herself and went off to the ladies' room.

“You said you wanted smart,” Renee replied, sipping a hefty brandy. “She's a bank manager, works at the bank I use.”

“You gotta be shittin' me,” Anthony spluttered.

“Would I do that to you?” Renee said calmly. “She's very astute and a genius with numbers. I'd love to steal her away to work for me.”

“Oh, no no
no!
” interrupted Susie. “I'm not having
her
around you all day.”

“Surely you trust me, Susie?” Renee asked.

“Not with
her
,” Susie answered, pouting.

“C'mon, sweetie, don't be like that,” Renee said, putting her arm around her girlfriend's shoulders. “You
know
you can trust me.”

“I do?” Susie responded, batting her eyelashes. “Perhaps you should try to convince me.”

“Christ!” Anthony complained. “Can't you two dykes give it a rest?”

“So
sorry
if we've offended your macho sensibilities,” Renee said bitingly as Tasmin returned to the table.

Anthony decided he'd been social for long enough. He leaned toward Tasmin, placing his hand over hers. “Tas, baby,” he said, as if they were the oldest of friends. “I hear ya good with numbers. Wanna count how many steps it takes t'get to my suite?”

*   *   *

Regal, ethnic Tasmin turned out to be a freak in the bedroom. Anthony had expected hot, but this one was a total fucking maniac, and strong with it. She practically
raped
him.

He was taken by surprise. They arrived in his suite, he opened a bottle of champagne, and suddenly, like a wild tiger, Tasmin sprung into action, ripping off her clothes, grabbing his pants and pulling them down, fastening her mouth on him until he was so hard he thought he might explode.

Then she pushed him—with a great deal of unexpected strength—onto the bed, leapt aboard, and straddled him, going at it like an athlete on the way to the finishing line.

He was too shocked to object. This was a whole new experience for a man who was always on top and always in charge. And come to think of it, it wasn't a bad experience at that. Tasmin certainly knew what she was doing—that is, until she produced a set of gold-plated handcuffs from her purse and attempted to fasten them around his wrists.

“What the fuck ya doin'?” he demanded, hurriedly rolling away from her.

“Relax,” she said calmly. “I can promise you'll enjoy the experience. Surely you've tried it before?”

“Not me, honey,” he growled. “Enough is enough.”

Tasmin was a woman of few words. “Handcuff
me
, then,” she ordered. “Handcuff me to the bed and go down on me.”

“What?” Anthony spluttered. He was an Italian American macho man with standards, there was no way he'd go down on a woman, that was
their
job, oral sex was all about the woman giving the
man
pleasure. Who did this douche bag think she was dealing with?

“If that's what you're lookin' for, you're outta luck, honey,” he said, thinking it was time he got rid of her.

“Why?” she asked boldly. “The taste of pussy frighten you?”

This one was definitely trying his patience. He'd fucked her—or rather, she'd fucked him. Now he wanted her out.

“This little party is over,” he said, getting up, walking to the bathroom door and reaching for a bathrobe.

“You think?” Tasmin said, squatting on the bed—all erect nipples and satiny milk chocolate skin.

“I know.”

She laughed.

Was she laughing at him?

Would she dare?

“Somethin' funny?” he snarled, giving her a cold-eyed glare.

“You,” she replied, coolly swinging her handcuffs back and forth as she knelt on the bed.

“Me, huh?” he said, a slow anger beginning to build within him. “I'm funny, huh?”

“You so-called macho guys from New York and Miami, you're all the same when it comes to sex. Scared little Mommys' boys. Mustn't get too down 'n' dirty. Mustn't do bad things or Mommy will spank your little bottom.”

Was she talking to
him
, Anthony Bonar? Was this smart-mouthed
puttana
disrespecting
him?

Hadn't Renee told her who he was? Hadn't Renee warned her to treat him nice?

“Get the fuck out,” he said, his voice hard.

“My pleasure, Mr. Nothing,” she answered. “I'll go, and you can run on back to Mommy, I'm sure she's waiting for you.”

Something snapped. Something bad. He'd had a long day and he didn't need this shit.

Without thinking about the consequences, he went for her, slapping her across the face with the back of his hand, his pinky ring cutting open her cheek.

“You dumb cunt, nobody talks t'me like that,” he shouted. “Now GET OUT.”

Tasmin had some moves of her own. She'd taken self-defense classes and did not take kindly to being assaulted. She made a fatal mistake. She slapped him back.

That a woman would dare to attack him was beyond his comprehension. The last person who'd physically attacked him had ended up in a ditch with his throat slit.

She must be insane
, he thought as he whacked her across the face again, getting blood on the sleeve of his bathrobe.

She was angry too. She fought back, leaping upon him until the two of them fell on the bed, wrestling for the power position.

This woman was one strong motherfucker; she almost had him pinned down.

Bringing his knee up he jammed it into her stomach, grabbed a handful of her hair, and sharply jerked her head back, snapping her neck.

“You fucking
bitch!
” he screamed. “You think you can talk to me like that an' get away with it? You get the fuck outta here
now
.” And he shoved her away from him with all his strength.

She fell onto the floor next to the bed.

Muttering to himself, he went into the bathroom. “You better be outta here by the time I come out,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Shrugging off the bathrobe, he stepped into the shower and stood under the cold stinging water, reaching for the soap and thoroughly lathering his cock and balls.

What if she had AIDS? He hadn't used a condom, she hadn't given him time to even think about using one.

JESUS CHRIST! Wait until he got hold of Renee and told her about this. She should be more careful about who she recommended, he was getting too old for this shit. He had Emmanuelle, and Carlita, and he had a wife sitting on her fat ass in Mexico City. So what did he need other whores for? And although Renee had assured him that this one
wasn't
a whore, she'd certainly acted like one.

Now that he got to thinking about it, she was even worse than a whore. She was supposed to be so smart and intelligent, but in his mind he decided she was nothing but a cheap nympho slut with a bad attitude.

After toweling off, he went back into the bedroom and was surprised to see that she was still there. He couldn't believe it: there she was, lying on the floor exactly where he'd left her.

“I thought I told you to get out,” he said harshly.

She didn't reply.

He walked over to her and prodded her in the stomach with the tip of his foot.

She didn't move.

He prodded her again.

Goddammit! Slowly realization dawned.

The bitch had gone and died on him.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I was thinking we could go out for a quiet dinner, just the two of us,” Venus suggested to Billy when he finally called her back.

“Sounds like a plan. Where d'you wanna go?”

“You choose.”

“No,” he countered, “
you
pick a place. We always end up going where you want anyway.”

“That's not true,” she said quickly.

“Yes it is.”

“No, Billy, it's not.”

There was a short silence while they both decided whether they wanted this to turn into a fight or not.

Venus decided not. “How about the Ivy?” she said.

“Paparazzi frenzy,” he groaned, not relishing the thought of being chased down the street by a crazed pack of jackal-like photographers intent on getting the worst photos.

“Spago?”

“Not feeling it tonight.”

“Where, then?”

“Dunno. Surprise me.”

She put down the phone, annoyed. Billy was the man in the relationship; why did
she
have to make all the decisions? Surely
he
was supposed to surprise
her?
Her former husband, the legendary cocksman Cooper Turner, had spent half of their marriage surprising her, until one memorable day
she'd
surprised him banging her stand-in while he was visiting the set of one of her movies.

Cooper had suffered from that well-known male affliction, the zipper problem. What a disappointment he'd turned out to be.

That was one of the things she liked about Billy: he didn't have the zipper problem. Oh yes, when they were out and about at various events and he was surrounded by beautiful, sexy women, he looked, but as far as she knew, he never took it any further. Nor did she for that matter, and she had plenty of opportunities. There were always hunky backup dancers around, hot male costars, horny producers and directors—they were all within her radar, but she was never tempted.

Venus was a one-man woman, and right now Billy was her man.

*   *   *

“
What
sounds like a plan?” Kev asked, wandering into the kitchen.

“You listening in on my phone conversations?” Billy responded, shoving his cell phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

“If it's a private deal, you'll tell me to bug off,” Kev said, helping himself to a cold beer from the fridge.

“Dinner with Venus, that's the plan.”

“Didn't you say you wanted to stay home tonight and watch the game on that frickin' giant-screen TV you had delivered yesterday?”

“Yeah, that was the original plan,” Billy said, stifling a yawn. “But now Venus wants to go out to dinner.”

“How come?”

“Waddya mean, how come?” Billy said, frowning. “She's my girlfriend, for chrissakes. Gotta do what the girlfriend wants.”

“How come?” Kev repeated.

“What's
up
with you? Stop repeatin' yourself like a freakin' parrot.”

“Nothin's up with me.”

“There's something on your mind.”

“Maybe.”

“Spit it out, asshole.”

“It's just that it gets on my tits seein' it, that's all,” Kev blurted.

“Seeing
what?
” Billy asked, exasperated.

“Y'know, seein' you turning into one of those pussy-whipped dudes,” Kev said, taking a swig of beer from the can, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Me?” Billy said, outraged. “Pussy-whipped? You gotta be jerking me off.”

“Venus calls, you cancel everything an' run. It's all wrong.”

“So I'm missing the game, big freakin' deal,” Billy said, walking into the living room.

“'S not the point,” Kev said, following him. “Guys gotta be in charge, otherwise girls trample all over 'em.”

“Since when did
you
become an expert on relationships?” Billy said, flopping down on the couch.

“I know what I see.”

“Screw you, Kev. I
am
in charge.”

“Yeah?” Kev said disbelievingly.

“Yeah,” Billy responded, wishing Kev would shut his big mouth.

“Then if you're in charge, why doncha stay home an' watch the game? Y'know it's what you wanna do.”

“No, Kev, it's what
you
wanna do.”

“Not me,” Kev said, shrugging. “I got a date. But if I
did
want to see the game, I'd cancel her ass so fast she wouldn't know what hit her.”

“You would, huh?”

“'Course.”

“Then do it.”

“Do what?”

“Cancel her. I'll do the same.”

“Yeah?”

“Pussy-whipped, my ass,” Billy muttered.

“You really want me to cancel my hot date?” Kev said, not quite sure he believed him.

Billy threw him a long, cool stare. “Do I look like I'm lyin'?”

*   *   *

First Venus tried on a slinky black Dolce & Gabbana dress, then she decided it was way too fancy for a casual dinner with her boyfriend. Jeans were more Billy's style, tight low-slung jeans worn with high boots and a plain white tee. She put the outfit together and paraded in front of the mirror, immediately realizing it was too casual—more suitable for lunch at the beach. She'd had her assistant book a table at Giorgio's, and although the Italian restaurant was near the ocean, it wasn't beach style. Last time she'd been there she'd run into Tom Hanks, Charlie Dollar, and Steven Spielberg, so she had to look her best. That was one of the major setbacks of being a star: everyone was ready to criticize.

How was she looking? they all wanted to know. Old? Fat? Lifted? Botoxed? If she looked good she got accused of all of the above. And if she looked like crap she was accused of letting herself go.

It was a no-win situation. The perils of being a superstar.