Double Lucky (67 page)

Armand tried not to think about his mother too much. Sidney Dunn had died a year previously, and it annoyed him that since then Peggy had become quite demanding—phoning him at all hours, claiming that she didn't see enough of him, wondering why he'd never married and given her grandchildren. Since she had no contact with anyone in Akramshar, she knew nothing of his wife and children.

Armand was well aware of what a nightmare it would be if she ever found out that he already had a family. A nightmare he was not prepared to deal with. She would insist on being involved, and when Peggy insisted on something, there was no stopping her.

Fouad was the only person who knew about his family, and he trusted Fouad to keep his silence. Fouad would never betray him; it was in his blood to remain loyal.

After changing into his robe, he retired to a males-only terrace room, far away from Soraya and the children. A manservant immediately brought him a cup of strong black tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. Another servant asked if he required a massage.

Yes, a massage was exactly what he required.

He sipped his tea, then entered a side room where soft music played. Two young women helped him out of his robe and, when he was fully naked, onto a massage table.

These women were not whores, they were servants who treated him like the prince he was. They trickled hot oil over his chest and stomach, moving slowly down to his groin area with their soothing hands. They wore white robes, which after a while he instructed them to remove. They were young—but not too young to service him with their soft lips. He felt aroused, and lay still while they brought him to orgasm. They were too young to humiliate; he couldn't be bothered.

When they were finished, he required nothing except solitude and time to think about the prize he was about to acquire when he returned to America.

The Keys.

His hotel.

A place where he'd decided he would be forever content.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Spending time with Sam was nice. Denver really appreciated his slightly skewed sense of humor. He was so laid-back and unthreatening, and not overly good-looking, although he was attractive in an Owen Wilson quirky kind of way. Also, he didn't hail from a high-powered family, or at least she didn't think he did, and that was another plus. Her brothers would love him; he was their kind of guy. Bobby—not so much. They'd find Bobby a bit out of their league.

Out of my league too,
she thought wryly.
Way out of my league.

Or not.

Lately she'd found herself trying to talk herself out of being with Bobby. It was almost as if she didn't feel she deserved him, which of course was ridiculous.

Or was it?

He'd never even noticed her in high school, so why was he with her now? She was the same person. Well … almost. Minus the braces and bad hair and chubby curves.

Sam had walked her back to her apartment, and she hadn't invited him in.

“Are you still seeing that guy you were with last time I was here?” he'd asked, striving to sound casual.

“Kind of,” she'd replied.

Kind of! Bobby would throw a fit if he heard how offhand she sounded about their relationship. Why hadn't she said, “Yes, we're together. Very much so. I love him and he loves me. So sorry, Sam,
that's
why I'm not inviting you in.”

“Okay then,” Sam had said. “Maybe you'd like to come by the set one day—watch them all ignore me.” She laughed. “I can offer you a fine lunch off the catering truck,” he added. “Whaddya think?”

“Sounds irresistible. Only please remember I'm a working girl.”

“We're shooting all next weekend,” he said, determined not to give up. “How about dropping by Saturday or Sunday?”

“I, uh, think I might have to go to Vegas,” she said, keeping it vague. “But, uh, I'll call you.”

Great, Denver. Getting all friendly with an ex would not go down well with Bobby. What's wrong with you?

Nothing. Or everything.

Suddenly she missed Bobby like crazy.

*   *   *

Finally Frankie returned one of Cookie's seven calls. Max and Harry exchanged a relieved look. Cookie had been driving them nuts with her endless stream of comments about Frankie, all about what a stud he was, and how she could definitely fall for a guy like him, and WHY THE FUCK WASN'T HE CALLING HER BACK?

“He wants me to go to the club,” she announced, shooting Max and Harry a triumphant look. “Wanna come?”

“No thanks,” they chorused.

“Why not?” Cookie demanded, already trying to decide what to wear.

“'Cause I have to get everything ready for my party,” Max said.

She was excited about the party. It was actually the first time she would have the Malibu house all to herself. And it was an amazing house, so perfect to throw a fantastic party. As long as she could keep everyone out of the house, what harm could anyone do? She planned on locking all the bedrooms, the screening room, and Lucky's and Lennie's private studies. The enormous patio, the infinity pool, and the sandy beach would be more than enough space for everyone to have a great time. She estimated they'd invited around thirty people, who would probably all bring a friend or two—so maybe they'd end up with seventy or eighty. Just the right number of bodies.

Harry was busy organizing a deejay he knew, and Cookie had already booked the In-N-Out hamburger truck to arrive at ten
P.M.
, so it was all systems go.

Max had still not made up her mind about whether to invite Ace. He'd be a last-minute decision.

Cookie took off, and Max decided an early night wouldn't be a bad idea, so after she and Harry had finished loading up her trunk with as many boxes of beer and tequila as they could fit in, she gave Harry a hug and headed for home.

Tomorrow would be a very busy day indeed.

*   *   *

Bobby was not happy. He'd had to postpone his flight to New York, and now he was sitting in a strip club with M.J., the two male Russian investors, and the lone female, who was obviously a raving lesbian the way she was stuffing hundred-dollar bills into the strippers' almost nonexistent G-strings.

Fuck! He wanted out. But he couldn't leave M.J. to handle them on his own. They were a tricky trio. First they'd requested dinner and a show. Then they'd spent ten minutes in Mood—thank God it was only ten minutes. Finally M.J. had gotten them to sign the papers, at which point they'd insisted on celebrating at a famous Vegas gentleman's strip club to cement the deal.

Bobby had a strong aversion to clubs that featured strippers. He wasn't one of the guys when it came to a bunch of bored, vaguely desperate females taking off their clothes for the public's pleasure. He felt sorry for the girls, and even sorrier for the usually drunk guys who sat there with their mouths hanging open, hoping for a stray tit to come their way.

The strippers immediately gravitated toward Bobby and M.J.—two handsome, apparently sober guys.

“Wanna go private, honey?” a breast-enhanced redhead whispered in Bobby's ear, her tasseled nipple grazing his cheek.

“Uh … not tonight,” he managed.

“You won't regret it, sweet thing,” she purred, licking her lips. “I got moves you ain't gonna see on
Dancing with the Stars
.”

“I bet,” he said, backing away and indicating Miss Russia, who had shed her jacket and stern expression and was eyeing a small blonde with lustful eyes. “Take
her
private. I'll pay.”

“Spoil sport,” the redhead whispered, but she moved over to the woman, grabbed her by the hand, and led her back to one of the private champagne rooms.

Bobby leaned over to M.J. “They've signed the papers. You think we can get the hell out of here?”

Before M.J. could answer, Bobby's cell rang. He almost didn't hear it, what with Lady Gaga screaming about paparazzi on the sound system, and the general noise.

It was Denver. He'd tried to reach her earlier to tell her he hadn't left for New York yet, but she hadn't picked up.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she responded. “What's all that noise?”

“Long story,” he said, delighted to hear her voice.

“Are you in New York?” she asked.

“Got delayed,” he answered, waving off a determined blonde with painful-looking nipple rings enhancing her overly large fake breasts.

“What? I can't hear you.”

“I'll call you back.”

“No. I'm going to sleep. Call me tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

He clicked off. Nothing worse than an unsatisfactory end to the evening.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

An army of hardworking executives made sure that The Keys ran as smoothly as possible, considering there was a workforce of thousands. From the head of security to the woman in charge of guest relations, everyone pitched in, for Lucky had made sure there were plenty of incentives for every employee—whatever their position—to do their best.

When she'd built the hotel, she'd put together a syndicate of investors, who all held equal shares in the private company she'd created. Very soon, she hoped, her investors would begin receiving money back. The Keys was doing well, but the initial investment was monumental, and the downturn in the economy was not helpful. However, the casino was one of the most successful in Vegas, thanks to a band of casino hosts who were the best in the business. The hotel was usually at 90 percent capacity, plus the apartments had all sold for record-breaking prices.

Lucky was satisfied with the way things were going. The Keys was her child—her love child—created from her desire to build the perfect oasis in Las Vegas, the city where she'd first made her mark when she'd taken over the building of Gino's hotel after he'd been forced to leave the country on a tax exile.

There were good memories and bad ones. Gino's moneymen had refused to deal with a woman, so in the middle of the night she'd paid one of them a visit, held a knife to his balls, and demanded he pay up—otherwise she'd be back to cut 'em off!

Surprise, surprise, he'd paid! Oh yes, that was a fun memory.

Not so funny was remembering Marco, her fiancé, who'd been gunned down next to the hotel swimming pool. And her brother, Dario, murdered and tossed from a moving car.

Lucky refused to dwell on the past. After taking a suitable revenge, she'd moved forward. It was the only way to survive.

The Keys was her tribute to Marco, Dario, and her beautiful mother, Maria, another victim of a brutal crime.

Lucky often wondered if Max had any idea about their family history. Max never asked questions; she didn't seem interested. One day Lucky planned on sitting her down and telling her everything. Max needed to know the battles the Santangelos had gone through, from which they'd emerged triumphant. And she had to be made aware of their famous motto—
Never fuck with a Santangelo
.

So far Lennie had prevented her from filling Max in on the family saga. “Let her grow up first,” he'd said. “There's plenty of time.”

Lennie Golden. Her husband. The best man on the planet. When she'd first met him, he was a stand-up comedian at her hotel. She'd propositioned him. He'd turned her down. And when they'd next run into each other, she was married to Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopoulos, and by some weird coincidence, he was married to Dimitri's spoiled daughter, Olympia. A crazy situation.

But in the end it had all worked out, and she could honestly say that Lennie was the love of her life. They were compatible in every way. True soul mates.

Before setting off for Vegas, she peeked in on Max, who was still asleep. Her child appeared so innocent when she was sleeping. Long-lashed eyelids covering brilliant green eyes, dark curly hair fanning out over the pillow.

Lucky stared at Max for a moment, remembering the day she was born, and Lennie's expression when he'd held his daughter for the first time. They'd named her Maria after Lucky's mother—a name Max changed in her teens because she felt Max was more her. So little Maria had become little Max. The new name suited her style; she'd always been an assertive child and quite a tomboy. Max Santangelo Golden.

Lucky sighed. Soon Max would be out on her own. They all grew up too quickly. Time moved at such a lightning pace.

“Bye, sweetheart,” she whispered, bending down to kiss Max on the forehead. “See you soon.”

*   *   *

The moment Lucky left her room, Max—who'd been faking sleep—jumped out of bed and ran to the window to witness her mother's departure. She'd pretended to be asleep because she hadn't wanted to get involved in a conversation about what she was going to do while everyone was away. Too risky, considering she was not the world's greatest liar, and unfortunately, Lucky possessed an extraordinarily keen bullshit detector.

Soon enough she observed Lucky striding out of the house and getting into a waiting town car to take her to the airport.

Max immediately reached for her cell and called Harry and Cookie, giving them the all clear. “Get your asses over here, we've got much to do,” she said excitedly.

Her next job was getting rid of the two housekeepers, who might present a problem. They were recent hires, sisters from Guatemala. Fortunately, twenty-four hours of freedom suited them just fine. Lucky did not believe in keeping a large staff around—she was very down-to-earth in that respect, preferring to do things for herself. She'd also never cared to raise her children in a pampered environment.

Cookie arrived at the house first, a blissful smile on her pretty face. “No more
boys
for me,” she announced with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It's men all the way.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” Max responded, rolling her eyes. “It's
Frankie
. Get a grip. He's a major loser.”