Double Lucky (62 page)

“Thanks, but you should see the girls that hang out in Bobby's club. Not to mention the ones that come up to him when we're out. They're all over him.”

“What do you care? He's with you, isn't he?”

“I guess…”

“She guesses,” Carolyn exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “The man is crazy for you; everyone knows it. And about those random girls? Let me take a shot—size zero 'cause they never eat. Huge boobs—fake. Huge lips—fake. High cheekbones—fake. And—”

“Stop!” Denver said, breaking into laughter. “They're in the entertainment business; they have to look their best.”

“Bull!” Carolyn exclaimed. “And don't take this personally, but I'm changing the subject to
me
.”

“Good,” Denver responded. “What's up with you?”

“I've decided to become gay,” Carolyn announced.

Denver choked on her coffee. “What?” she spluttered. “You can't just
decide
to become gay. It's something you're either into or you're not.”

“I'm into it,” Carolyn said matter-of-factly. “Met this lovely woman at yoga. She's invited me out on a date. So guess what? I'm going.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I'm off men forever. First I was with Matt, who cheated on me. Then Gregory, who turned out to be a lying, despicable piece of crap. I've had it with the male sex—I don't want anything to do with them anymore. Not so hard to understand, right?”

“Well…” Denver began, but before she could say anything else, Andy began to cry, and glancing at her watch, she realized that if she didn't get a move on, she'd be late for work.

“Then you think I should go to Vegas?” she asked, grabbing her car keys and hurrying toward the door.

“Damn right you should,” Carolyn said, reaching down to pick up her son.

“Okay, I'll do it,” Denver said, deciding that she definitely would. “And you have fun with … uh … who?”

“Vanessa,” Carolyn said, smiling. “And yes, I promise I will.”

*   *   *

Groping for her cell while still asleep was nothing new for Max. “What?” she mumbled into her BlackBerry.

“Guess where
I
am?” came the whispered reply.

“Cookie?”

“Yes, it's me,” Cookie giggled. “Little ole me.”

Max opened one eye. “Where are you?” she asked, although she had a horrible suspicion that she already knew the answer.

“Guess!”

“Don't wanna guess,” Max said irritably, kicking off her duvet. “Where the fuck are you?”

“I'm in Frankie's bed, and it was
amazing!
” Cookie sighed. “Like, totally random, amazing sex!”

“Crap!” Max exclaimed, sitting up. “You didn't screw him, did you?”

“Course I did,” Cookie said with a triumphant giggle.

“
Oh my God!
” Max scolded. “You're not supposed to screw someone like Frankie.”

“Why not?”

“'Cause you're just not. He's way too sketchy,
and
a total druggie.”

“But it was
soooo
great,” Cookie enthused. “Wanna hear the sex-drenched details?”

“No thank you,” Max said primly. “I'd rather not.”

“You're no fun,” Cookie complained. “I'm gonna hav'ta call Harry. He's
so
into details.”

“Do that.”

Jeez! Frankie Romano, Bobby's former drug-addict best friend, and Cookie. This was not welcome news. And it was all her fault because she should never have left Cookie at the club. Frankie was a certified lowlife who'd been running call girls with his previous girlfriend, Annabelle Maestro. He'd use Cookie, cast her aside, and the fallout would be a total pain. She'd have to listen to Cookie moan and groan for weeks on end.

What a bummer! Why had she gone and hooked them up with Frankie simply to get into his stupid club? She should've known better.

Grabbing an oversized T-shirt, she fell out of bed, wondering what she could do to rectify the situation.

Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

*   *   *

Bobby was all business as he pulled into the private parking sector of The Keys. M.J., who was not only his business partner but also his closest confidant, came strolling over to greet him. They exchanged a macho hug.

M.J. was African American and handsome, although slightly short. He was married to Cassie, a young singer with big ambitions. They'd gotten married in Vegas on a whim, and now, just under a year later, Cassie was pregnant. M.J., who'd moved to Vegas from New York to oversee the launch of Mood, was delighted. Cassie was not. At almost nineteen, she wanted a career, not a baby. M.J.'s affluent parents—his father was a renowned neurosurgeon and his mother a former opera singer—were perched on the sidelines, waiting to see what happened next. Cassie was not the girl they'd envisioned for their only son, nor was a career opening nightclubs, however successful they might be.

M.J. didn't care. He was crazy about his young wife, but now with a baby on the way, there was a catch, something he couldn't wait to discuss with Bobby.

“Great wheels!” M.J. exclaimed, checking out Bobby's Lamborghini.

Bobby nodded. “Yeah—since I've been spending so much time on the West Coast, I decided I needed to buy me a car. It can get up to two hundred eleven miles per hour, man. It's insane, and I love every minute of it. Denver doesn't.”

“No shit,” M.J. said, walking around the car, giving it a full inspection. “I wonder why.”

“Thinks it's too flashy and fast.”

“Well, bro, low-key it ain't.”

They laughed and exchanged an enthusiastic fist pump.

“How
is
your low-key girlfriend?” M.J. asked as they entered the enormous glass-enclosed lobby. “Still putting away bad guys?”

“Denver's great,” Bobby said. “She's a special kind of girl.”

“I'm gettin' you feel that way. I've never seen you so caught up.”

“What can I tell you?” Bobby said with a big grin. “The woman makes me happy.”

“And that, my man, is all that matters.”

“Right on!”

“An' talking of happy,” M.J. said, “I got some news of my own.”

“Wanna tell me?”

“Cassie's pregnant.”

“Jeez, M.J. You ready for that?”

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

“Told your parents yet?”

“Haven't got around to it, but I will.”

“You'd better.”

“Don't think I don't know it.”

“They'll be happy for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure they will. Now let's go kick some investor butt. And later we gotta get together an' celebrate.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Once Armand Jordan decided he wanted something, there was no going back, whether it be a woman, an unobtainable painting, a special delicacy, a one-of-a-kind car, or a building. Nobody ever said no to Armand, and if they did, he merely upped the price.

Usually he favored high-class call girls—hookers had tricks that other women did not possess. Little tricks. Dirty tricks. Filthy things a man can only dream about.

Once in a while he came across a woman who was
not
for sale. This did not faze Armand, for they all had a price. And sometimes it wasn't monetary.

On occasion it intrigued him to discover what that price might be. It was a game he played for his own enjoyment, and when Armand played, he played to win.

His latest conquest was Nona Constantine, the wife of Martin Constantine, one of his rivals in the real-estate business, a man some considered to be almost as powerful as Armand.

How wrong they were!

Nona was exactly the kind of challenge he craved. Married, with a young child, she was a former beauty queen from Slovakia, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Her husband doted on her, but Armand's canny instinct allowed him to guess that ever since she'd given birth, Martin was not fucking her the way a woman yearned to be fucked.

Armand worked on her slowly, and since they moved in the same New York social circles—art gallery openings, charity events, small dinner parties—it was quite easy to get close to her. Especially as he always had a girl on his arm. Only
he
knew that his so-called “dates” were bought and paid for. That way they never gave him any trouble or made any demands. His unbreakable rule was never to use the same girl twice.

New York hostesses considered Armand Jordan a huge catch; they were always trying to fix him up. But he eluded their attempts. He was attractive in a slightly mysterious way, with a neat black mustache, thick eyebrows framing brooding eyes, and an impeccable dress sense. Only the best for Armand. He wore socks and underwear once, then threw them away. Shirts he might wear twice, but that was it. And his hand-tailored suits never stayed in his closet longer than a month.

The hostesses persevered, for not only was Armand mega rich, but it was rumored that back in the small Middle Eastern country he originally hailed from, he possessed some kind of title.

He never spoke of that.

It took him a couple of months to get Nona to his penthouse, on the pretext of showing her a rare Picasso he'd recently acquired. He did not mind the wait; in fact, he quite enjoyed the anticipation of the conquest.

She arrived at eleven in the morning, an innocent time of day. She had on a pale pink Chanel suit with a lacy blouse underneath, and beige Louboutin heels that clicked on his highly polished marble floor as he led her around his penthouse, giving her the grand tour. Finally they ended up in the master bedroom, a masculine room, all deep burgundy leather couches and black cashmere throws covering the oversized bed.

“No family photos,” Nona said, glancing around his stark bedroom. She laughed coquettishly. “Armand, you are
such
a man of mystery. And why do I always see you with a different girl? Surely you wish to meet a woman you can share your life with.”

“Why would I want to do that when I can have a woman like you?” he said, gazing into her eyes as if he meant it.

And just like that, all his hard work paid off. All the compliments and sly attention and flattery, flattery, flattery.

She was his. All his to use and abuse and humiliate.

Because that was his pleasure. That was his kick.

First he kissed her, roughly forcing his lips down on hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, giving her no chance to object. Then, without warning, his hand swooped under her skirt, and his thick fingers slid past her panties into the soft mound of flesh that was wet and willing and waiting for discovery.

No foreplay for this one. She was turned on the minute she'd walked into his apartment. Nona Constantine wanted it. And he was about to give it to her. Hard.

Navigating his thick fingers through her wiry pubic hair, he was excited by the furriness. He wound strands of hair tightly around his fingers until she cried out in pain. This pleased him. If he wanted a woman shaved like a child, he would have a child.

“Oh, Armand,” she gasped, flushed and breathless. “We shouldn't be doing…”

It was a little late for objections. Too late.

He shoved her down onto the bed and thought about Martin Constantine and the concealed camera recording every moment. His thoughts made him as hard as he'd ever been.

Dipping into his bedside table drawer, he withdrew a glassine bag of cocaine and sprinkled some of the white powder on her erect nipples.

She writhed beneath him as he snorted the powder from her breasts. Then, as she begged him to fuck her, he gave it to her hard, ramming his penis into her with considerable force, then turning her over and taking her from behind—ignoring her objections and sudden cries of pain.

Realizing this was not going the way she'd hoped it would, she struggled to escape his relentless attack, but he was having none of it as he rode her hard, punishing her with his penis for being an unfaithful bitch.

He felt invincible and powerful. He was the man, and once again a woman had proved to him that all women were dirty whores.

Except perhaps his wife. But who cared about her? He certainly didn't.

*   *   *

Later, after relentlessly fucking Nona Constantine in every possible way, he informed her that she was a cheating, filthy prostitute, physically dragged her from his bedroom, and threw her out.

The shock on her face was palpable as he hustled her out his front door, flinging her designer clothes after her.

“What? What did I do?” she sobbed, red in the face as he slammed the door on her.

He didn't bother replying.

It was satisfying to know that there was nobody she could complain to, nothing she could do. She was fucked in more ways than one.

Once rid of his conquest, Armand snorted more coke and summoned Fouad, who worked downstairs in a different apartment. “Come up here,” Armand commanded. “Right now.”

Fouad hurried to the penthouse.

“What's happening with The Keys?” Armand demanded as soon as Fouad walked in.

“There is a half-naked woman crying outside your door,” Fouad remarked, noting that the prince wore only a bathrobe, and that there was a telltale residue of white powder under his nose. Armand's use of cocaine was escalating, and it worried Fouad as he watched Armand become even more irrational and moody.

“I trust you ignored her,” Armand said, striding purposefully toward his palatial bathroom.

“Who is she?” Fouad asked.

“Martin Constantine's wife,” Armand boasted. “I told you I can have any woman I want. They're all whores.”

Fouad shrugged and followed him into the bedroom. He was well aware of Armand's predilections when it came to women. Privately, he considered it a sickness, but he would never dare say anything. Although lately Armand's sickness, coupled with his excessive use of drugs, was becoming almost dangerous.