Drop Dead Beautiful (18 page)

“Like I said, instinct.”

“That’s not enough for me to comment on,” Lucky said,
pouring herself a shot of limoncello. “You’ve got to give me more than that.”

“Okay,” Venus said patiently. “Here’s the deal. We were supposed to go out tonight, have a quiet dinner together, then just as I was getting dressed, he called to cancel.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me he was tired, and that Alex had given him an early call for tomorrow. That’s it.”

“Hey, if he has an early call, it’s understandable, right?”

“I guess,” Venus said unsurely. “But then I offered to come over to his place, and he said no.”

“That’s understandable too. Would you want someone coming over when you’ve got an early call? You of all people should know what it’s like.”

“I’m getting the distinct impression you’re on his side,” Venus said irritably.

“No way,” Lucky responded. “But I get it.”

“I wish I did,” Venus said, downing her limoncello in one swift gulp.

“You’ve got to give him space,” Lucky said, willing her friend to snap out of the ridiculous girly funk she was obviously in. This wasn’t like the Venus she knew.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause if you don’t, he’s gonna feel crowded. And if you understand anything about men, they’re all shit-scared of any hint of commitment. That’s when they run. You know, ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ and all that crap they come out with.”

“I think I know why he’s acting like this,” Venus mused. “It’s all this press stuff that never stops. Morons writing trash about us, delving into our innermost thoughts. We need to get away to some unreachable island.”

“Nowhere’s unreachable today,” Lucky pointed out. “They’ll follow you with their long-range lenses and there’ll be even more photos.”

“I’m just … I dunno,” Venus said, gesturing helplessly. “I guess I’m depressed.”

“Billy cancels one dinner and you’re depressed,” Lucky
said. “This isn’t like you, Venus. Where’s the kick-ass girl I used to know?”

“It’s not just him backing out of one dinner. He’s pulling away, I can feel it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re not a kid,” Lucky snapped, fast running out of sympathy. “Why don’t you
ask
him what’s going on?”

“ ’Cause if I ask, he might say he doesn’t want to be with me anymore. Then what?”

“Then you’ll hook up with somebody else,” Lucky said patiently.

“It’s not that easy.”

“You’ve never had a problem before.”

“I know, but this time I’ve done something really foolish.”

“C’mon, let’s hear it, what now?”

“I’ve gone and fallen in love.”

Finally Henry made it to Big Bear. He drove directly to the Kmart parking lot, got out of his car, and looked around. He seemed to remember that Max said she drove a BMW, but he couldn’t recall if she’d mentioned what color it was. He knew he’d recognize her once he saw her, because she’d posted her picture and he had a copy in his wallet. She resembled a very young version of Lucky Santangelo, the woman who’d stolen his future.

Oh yes, he was about to make sure that Lucky’s daughter paid dearly for her mother’s mistake.

He limped into the store cursing his bad leg, for there were times he yearned to move faster. He’d been dealt a bad hand, although not quite as bad as his dearly departed father.

He moved slowly, checking out the aisles one by one, realizing that they hadn’t fixed a time, and since it was now late afternoon, would she have waited for him to arrive?

Why not? he reasoned. After all, she’d come all this way.

A large black woman brushed against him. He hissed an insult under his breath.

The woman heard him and stopped abruptly. “
What
you say?” she demanded, several wobbly chins quivering with indignation. “What you
damn
say?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” he muttered.

“You’d better watch your mouth,” she snorted, marching away.

Watch his mouth? All he’d said was, “Don’t touch me, you fat bag of lard.”

He hated being out amongst the common people; it was beneath him. He was Henry Whitfield-Simmons, a special man, a privileged man. He could not abide crowds—they made him feel insecure. Not that the Kmart store was crowded. There were very few people walking around, and that was good.

So where was she? Max Maria Santangelo Golden. Where the hell was she?

He limped to the front of the store and stood outside, his eyes scanning the street.

She was there, somewhere. He knew it.

Now all he had to do was find her.

Chapter 25

Halfway to New York, Anthony changed his mind. “Tell the pilot to reroute, we’re flying to Miami,” he informed The Grill.

The big man didn’t argue—even though they’d been in Miami less than twenty-four hours earlier. Whatever Anthony Bonar wanted, he got.

The Grill informed the pilot of their change in destination. The pilot, who had a wife and two kids waiting in New York, was disgruntled. He carried on about air-traffic control and landing permission.

The Grill told him to work it out.

Anthony owned a luxurious waterfront home in Miami where his two teenage kids lived with their English nanny, while Francesca resided on the property in a guesthouse he’d had specially built to her specifications. Emmanuelle lived nearby in a magnificent Ocean Drive penthouse
—his
penthouse, because he’d never put anything in her name. If Emmanuelle ever decided to leave him, she left with nothing. He was no fool. He’d even made Irma sign a postmarriage prenuptial giving her practically nothing should they ever divorce—which was unlikely, because having a wife was excellent insurance as far as protecting himself from other women.

Anthony never did anything without thinking about it first. He was smart that way; his grandfather had taught him well. “When it comes to women, ya gotta use your head,”
Enzio had often lectured. “Your dick is for fuckin’ ’em, an’ your head is for fuckin’ ’em in a different way. Don’t never forget that.”

For a brief moment Anthony thought about Tasmin. He hoped that by this time Renee had disposed of the girl way out in the desert, buried where nobody would find her. The authorities could add her name to the hundreds of people who went missing every day in America. She was a bank manager, for chrissakes. Who gave a damn? It wasn’t like he’d fucked a movie star and snapped her neck.

Renee was upset with him, but that wouldn’t last. She was smart enough not to piss him off. And if she was
really
smart, she’d never mention Tasmin again. It was over, done with, there was no going back.

By the time his plane landed in Miami, it was late morning. He had a choice: Should he go to his home, or should he go straight to Emmanuelle’s apartment? He decided to surprise Emmanuelle.

His number-one mistress lived in a white Art Deco building right in the middle of Ocean Drive. The doorman knew him. Unbeknownst to Emmanuelle, Anthony paid both the night and day porters to give him a full report of her activities.

The day porter, a Hispanic man with bad teeth and an unruly mass of frizzy hair, greeted him with an ingratiating leer. “Señor Bonar, eez pleasure to see you back so soon.”

“Anything to report?” Anthony said, not in the mood for pleasantries.

“Nothing,
señor
, all is quiet.” The day porter lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s had no visitors. I watch. I see.”

Anthony gave a curt nod and moved away from the man who never failed to annoy him. He stepped into the elevator with The Grill right behind him. He always kept The Grill in close proximity since he never knew what dangers were lurking. His connections were varied, and sometimes not so trustworthy. He also had to be on the alert for undercover cops who often attempted to infiltrate his business. Fortunately, he
had a nose for smelling them out, and when he did, he either added them to his extensive payroll, or their careers turned out to be short-lived.

He entered Emmanuelle’s apartment with his key and discovered her asleep in the bedroom, naked beneath peach-colored satin sheets. Emmanuelle was a true diva in training—she went for all the trimmings: satin sheets, sumptuous cushions, and huge fur throws. It always surprised Anthony that she was able to sleep on the slick satin sheets, because whenever
he
lay down on them, he had the distinct sensation that his ass was about to slide right off the bed. Damn sheets! But if they made her happy …

Stripping off his clothes, he dumped them on the floor before climbing into bed beside her. No Viagra today, with Emmanuelle he didn’t always need it.

Smoothing his hand over her bare ass, he began sliding his fingers into the crack.

“Honey bunch, it’s you,” she murmured, rapidly waking up. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m back,” he announced, as if she wasn’t already aware of his presence.

“You only just left,” she said, yawning. “Are you checking up on me?”

“I check up on you all the time,” he said with a smug smile. “Only you don’t know it.”

“You do?” she responded, thinking to herself,
I might look like a bimbo, but I’m well aware he pays people to watch me. I would never be dumb enough to bring a guy here for that reason. I’d go to their place or we’d check into a hotel
.

It was actually quite fortunate she was back in her own bed, because the previous night she’d gone out dancing and a couple of smokin’ guys had definitely caught her attention. She’d flirted a lot, been tempted, then decided she was too tired from her photo shoot to do anything about it, so she’d come home. Alone. Thank God! Because here was Anthony, back again, and she hadn’t been expecting him for another couple of weeks.

“How come you’re back so soon?” she asked, her delicate
fingers fluttering over his chest, twirling his coarse black chest hairs around her fingers. She knew he liked it when she touched him there.

“Must’ve missed you,” he said, his hand diving between her legs.

“Oooh,” she murmured, wriggling away from him. “Baby’s gotta take a shower.”

“You don’t wanna do that,” he said. “’Cause I wanna fuck you just the way you are.”

Back in Las Vegas, Renee Falcon was crazed with fury—a cold, hard, hopeless fury she knew she had to keep to herself, because what else could she do? Anthony Bonar had come into town, she’d fixed him up with a date, and he’d left her with a dead body that he expected
her
to dispose of.

He’d given her no choice. She couldn’t report him to the cops, and she certainly couldn’t allow a body to be discovered on the premises of her hotel.

She’d known Tasmin from her dealings with the bank, and although they were not exactly friends—more casual acquaintances—she’d always liked her. Tasmin was smart, a hard worker, and the mother of a ten-year-old boy. She was also—according to rumors—a swinger. So Renee had thought that fixing her up with Anthony might work for both of them. Now this horrible tragedy.

Jesus Christ! It wasn’t as if Tasmin was some out-of-town runaway whose body could be disposed of and nobody would ask any questions. There’d be plenty of questions about Tasmin.

Renee was acutely aware that they’d all been seen together at the hotel restaurant, which meant there were probably witnesses who would have observed Tasmin leaving with Anthony.

Damn Anthony Bonar. Underneath the relentless grooming and five-thousand-dollar suits lurked a murderous blackmailing chauvinist greedy thug. Yes, that’s what he was. A dangerous killer with absolutely no conscience.

Renee realized she’d have to pay a great many people off to make this go away. And would Anthony recompense her? No. He was a cheap motherfucker on top of everything else. He was supposed to pay half of Tucker Bond’s astronomical fee, and so far, every time she asked him for it, he stonewalled her. Maybe she should cancel the whole damn thing.

Right now she had to concentrate on the task at hand. Job number one was disposing of the body—a costly undertaking, but one she could make happen. After the body was gone she had to arrange for the room to be thoroughly cleaned, the sheets disposed of, fingerprints removed from everything. As far as anyone was concerned, Anthony had not spent any time at the hotel. He’d flown in for a meeting, had dinner, and left immediately after.

Yes, that was it. Tasmin had driven away from the hotel and that was the last anybody had seen of her.

Fortunately, Renee had surrounded herself with employees she could trust—that is, as long as they were well compensated.

By the time she’d taken care of everything, she was worn out and still very angry.

Susie was half asleep when she finally got back to their house.

“Where have you been?” Susie asked, removing her powder-pink sleep mask. “Anthony calls and you go running. What did he
want?
That man is so classless and dumb, it’s beyond me why we have to entertain him every time he comes to town. Isn’t it enough that he takes money from us every month?”

“Don’t ever let him hear you call him dumb,” Renee said, shrugging off her jacket. “You should know better than that.”

“For God’s sake,” Susie complained, pouting. “We don’t
need
someone like him in our lives. I hated dinner, I hated that you acted as his pimp. Surely he can find his own girls?”

“Listen, Susie,” Renee said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, her face grim. “Something bad happened. I can’t tell you what it is because I don’t want you involved, but I
can
tell you that we won’t be seeing Tasmin again.”

“Why?” Susie said tartly. “Has she run off with Anthony?”

“Please—no questions,” Renee said wearily. “And if the police come around asking anything, all you know is that we had dinner with Anthony, he was
not
staying here, and Tasmin was not his date. That’s it. Nothing more.”

“What
is
going on?” Susie asked, sitting up in bed.

“Tasmin was dining with us,” Renee continued. “Anthony just happened to join us. It’s important. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” Susie said, looking alarmed.