Drop Dead Beautiful (51 page)

Now here she was, opening her dream hotel, and everything was perfect.

Well… almost…

Something was bothering her. Something that she’d dismissed over the past few weeks as a frivolous invitation to a party or event. Bobby had been concerned, and maybe rightfully so, because over the last twenty-four hours she’d received two more handwritten hand-delivered notes, similar to the ones she’d received in L.A. Only now, instead of saying
Drop Dead Beautiful
, the word
Beautiful
had been replaced with
Bitch
.

Drop Dead Bitch
. And the word
Bitch
was scrawled in what looked like blood.

This was no invitation. This was a threat.

And since Lucky was not the kind of woman to be intimidated, she’d decided to deal with it after the opening.

Nothing was about to spoil her night of triumph.

Emmanuelle appeared in the living room of their bungalow wearing a shiny gold sequin number, short to show off her legs, low-cut to show off her tits, and dipping at the back to show off the beginning of her ass crack. Her blond hair was piled high, and her lips were pouty and full. Francesca informed Anthony in a hoarse stage whisper that his mistress resembled a street hooker. Anthony didn’t care, Francesca had no idea what girls looked like today, and as far as he was concerned, Emmanuelle was every man’s walking wet dream, a cover-girl fantasy in the flesh.

“Irma!” Anthony yelled, prowling around the living room. “Get your ass out here.”

Irma appeared from the bedroom. She was twelve years older than Emmanuelle and tonight she looked it. Though she’d once been a glowing beauty queen, Anthony had managed to turn her into a tense and unhappy woman wearing a black dress and the diamond drop earrings he’d insisted she put on.

She refused to even glance at Emmanuelle, which suited Emmanuelle, because she’d already decided that the only way to deal with the wife situation was to ignore her. If Anthony was playing games it was all right with her, as long as
she
wasn’t involved.

“Take off your earrings,” Anthony commanded his wife. “Take ’em off an’ give ’em to Emmanuelle.”

Irma stared at her husband, unbridled hatred in her eyes.

“Take ’em off,” Anthony repeated, “before I rip ’em off your fuckin’ ears.”

Irma reached up and removed her diamond drop earrings.

“Give ’em to Emmanuelle,” Anthony instructed, enjoying this little scene. “They’re hers now.”

“You think I care?” Irma said, through clenched teeth. “You think I give a damn?”

“Shut the fuck up an’ hand ’em over,” Anthony said, annoyed that she still had some fight left in her.

Irma took off the earrings and threw them on the floor, infuriating Anthony even more.

He jumped forward and slapped his wife across the face, his pinky ring cutting into the delicate skin on her cheek, drawing blood.

Fortunately, Francesca chose that moment to walk back into the room. Her flinty eyes took in the scene, and she began screaming at her grandson in Italian.

Anthony glared at her, but he backed off and walked over to the bar where he poured himself a hefty tumbler of Scotch.

Emmanuelle picked up the earrings from the floor—she wasn’t allowing
them
to go to waste—while Irma retreated to the bedroom.

Anthony downed his drink and stared at his blond mistress as she put on the earrings and paraded in front of him.

On Emmanuelle they looked fake. Stupid, fake baubles, like her stupid, fake tits.

Sometimes everything wasn’t enough.

“Can you believe she put Ace on a different floor?” Max complained. “It’s like she
totally
doesn’t trust me.”

“Wise woman, your mom,” Cookie said, rolling her eyes as they both stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying gloss and mascara and gold shimmer and all other kinds of makeup enhancements, readying themselves for the night ahead.

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Max asked, smudging black eyeliner to give her eyes a smoky look.

“I’m on the side of anyone who can find me a hottie of my own tonight,” Cookie replied, picking up the curling tongs and attacking her hair.

“There should be plenty around,” Max remarked. “She’s got most of young Hollywood putting in an appearance. I took a peek at the list.”

“You did?” Cookie said, trying not to appear too excited. “Any sexy young Will Smiths on it? He’s
sooo
hot for an old dude.”

“Not my type.”

“Course he isn’t,” Cookie grumbled. “You’ve got your own personal hottie stashed in a room he’s
not
sharing with Harry. Man, you’re gonna have a wicked time!”

“I can only hope,” Max said, applying blusher. “Thing is, I’m not so sure he’s into me, he kinda thinks I’m too young.”

“You gotta
play
it, girl,” Cookie advised. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”

“Kinda. Sorta.”

Cookie piled on the lip gloss. “What did Lucky say about him?”

Max shrugged. “Dunno. She was all over the place.”

The phone rang and Max picked up.

“Miss Golden, this is the front desk.”

“Yes?”

“Your cousin requested that you meet him outside the spa in fifteen minutes.”

“My cousin?” Max said, frowning.

“That is correct, Miss Golden.”

“Oh, my cousin!” she said, giggling as she put the phone down.

“What’s going on?” Cookie asked.

“It’s Ace,” Max said, a grin spreading across her face. “Y’see, Internet Freak thought that Ace was my cousin, so now Ace is into the game. He wants me to meet him outside the spa.”

“I thought we were all going to the party together.”

“Is it okay if we see you there? You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why would I mind?” Cookie said sarcastically. “I’m totally psyched walking in by myself.”

“Not to worry, we’ll get there before you,” Max said, excited at the thought of seeing Ace. “Quick, pass me the tongs, I’ve got to get downstairs pronto!”

“Okay, go have fun.”

“I will,” Max said, pulling on her favorite Seven jeans and a slinky red silk tank. “Do I look hot?” she questioned, staring at herself in the mirror.

“Sizzling!”

“Really?” she said unsurely.

“Go get him, girl. It’s time.”

Detective Franklin was still sitting at her desk thinking about her meeting with Anthony Bonar when a male colleague dumped a package on her desk.

“This came addressed to you,” he said.

“What is it, a bomb?” she joked.

There was a running gag at the precinct that anytime an unidentified package appeared, it had to be a bomb.

“No chance. It’s kinda soft.”

“Hmm … like you were last night on your hot date,” Detective Franklin said.

The other detectives in the room roared with laughter.

“Who’s opening it?” she asked.

“Your turn,” the male detective said.

“Am I the only one with stones around here?” she asked, ripping open the package.

“You said it,” the guys chorused.

The package contained a bloodstained white bathrobe from the Cavendish Hotel. Pinned to it was a crude hand-drawn map, and a piece of paper with cut-out letters from a newspaper spelling out
TASMIN
and
ANTHONY BONAR
.

“Someone get this to the lab immediately and have tests done right away,” Detective Franklin said, adrenaline coursing. “Blood, semen, hair, and anything else they can come up with. I think we got us a body and a killer. Let’s go!”

Chapter 82

“How come
I
didn’t get to meet Max’s latest victim?” Lennie asked as their private elevator descended to the terrace level.

“Because,” Lucky replied, holding tightly on to his hand, “you were out on the golf course having a great time with Charlie Dollar when they arrived.”

“Is this the boy Max was in Big Bear with?”

“Apparently so. According to her, he saved her ass from a gang of carjackers—or so she says. Personally, I think she came across him online, met up with him in Big Bear, and fell in first love.”

“First love?” Lennie questioned.

“Oh, you know. Or maybe you don’t—you’re not a girl.”

“Gee, you noticed!” he drawled.

“Anyway, first love is special,” Lucky said, matter-of-factly. “It’s all-consuming and usually involves rejection. My opinion is that this boy isn’t as into Max as she is into him. He’s older and killer handsome, so he’ll break her heart, forcing her to realize that all men aren’t perfect, and that’ll prepare her for the reality of life, so it’s all good.”

“Jeez!” Lennie whistled. “My wife the cynic.”

“It’s called training.”

“And who trained
you?
”

“I had to learn all by myself.”

“You’re a hard woman.”

She reached up and softly caressed his cheek. “Did I tell you how handsome you look in your tux?”

“No. You take me for granted.”

“Lennie,” she chided, “you are the one man I will
never
take for granted.”

“Promise?”

“Bet on it.”

Lord Grant, aka Henry Whitfield-Simmons, left the Cavendish and drove his Bentley to the Keys. He had passes for the reception and tickets for the lingerie show and concert. Tickets he had no intention of using, for by the time the show started, he and Maria would be busy getting reacquainted.

“We should get married, Alex,” Ling said, surprising him in the shower.

“You’re not bringing
that
up again,” Alex responded as his beautiful naked Asian girlfriend with the straight pubic hair and inappropriate fake tits sunk to her knees and began doing things to him he could never resist.

He leaned back against the side of the shower as Ling went to work. She was an excellent lawyer, but her real talent lay in her delicate tongue—a tongue that could perform feats resulting in extraordinary sexual pleasure.

“Jesus, honey,” he groaned, giving himself up to the moment. “I don’t want to be late …”

Oh no
, Ling thought,
mustn’t be late for Lucky. That would never do. Lucky always has to come first. Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!
She was so sick and tired of his obsession.

Soon she had his full attention as she employed her talents to their best advantage. Ling had learned at a very young age how to bring a man to the brink of orgasm and then take him back, just a tad, so that by the time he actually came, it was an orgasm of mammoth proportions.

Alex knew nothing of her early life in China where she’d been raised in a house of ill repute, before managing to escape at the age of fourteen, thanks to a married American businessman fifty years her senior. The man had brought her
to America, set her up in an apartment, and financed her education. In return she’d given him the best sex of his life.

He’d died ten years ago a happy man. She’d gone on to pass the bar and become an extremely accomplished divorce lawyer at one of L.A.’s most prestigious law firms.

Meeting Alex Woods was the finest moment of her life. She admired his blazing talent and unbridled masculinity— she’d always been a big fan of his films.

Shortly after moving in with him she’d decided she wanted to marry him, but Alex was forever resistant, in spite of her unusual sexual prowess.

Over the two years they’d been together she’d convinced herself that Lucky Santangelo Golden was the reason for his reluctance to make the ultimate commitment. Without Lucky, there would be no problem.

In Ling’s eyes Alex Woods harbored an obsessive love for Lucky Santangelo Golden that was not healthy. It was up to her to do something about it.

Tonight she might get the opportunity to do just that.

The grand terrace of the Keys was the perfect setting for a party: creamy limestone floors and towering Italian marble columns, giant urns filled with a profusion of purple bougainvillea, and thousands of white candles in silver holders.

As Lucky entered, still holding Lennie’s arm, the sight of everything took her breath away. She felt an enormous surge of adrenaline as she looked around, realizing that all the hard work of putting this project together had been worth it. Five years ago she’d had an idea. Now, here it was—the Keys. Her hotel. Her palace. She was queen of her kingdom.

“Amazing!” Lennie whispered in her ear before they were separated and she was swept up in a sea of people congratulating her. She went with the flow, accepting the many compliments coming her way, graciously kissing cheeks and shaking hands. It was a whirlwind of activity, and no press. The press were not allowed into the reception—they
were stationed outside on the red carpet, which would serve as a pathway to the lingerie show and Venus’s appearance.

Lucky had an army of people working for her, and they were all doing a fantastic job. From the P.R.’s to the caterers, security, and management, everyone was in top form, making sure there wasn’t a glitch in sight. Spotting Gino, she attempted to make her way toward him, but before she could get very far, Alex blocked her path. “Hey, you,” he said. “I see you got yourself quite a turnout. Shame you’re not popular.”

“We’re in business,” she said, smiling. “Now I’ll have to concentrate on paying back all my investors in record time. Think there’s a chance?”

“No hurry on my account,” he said, leaning in.

She took a step back just as Ling appeared, sleek in a white Valentino suit.

“Don’t
you
look lovely,” Lucky said to the Asian woman. “How come you’re still hanging around with this old fart?”

Ling lacked a sense of humor, especially when it came to Alex. “Good evening, Lucky,” she said, her expression tight and unfriendly. “Please do not call Alex names. He may look like he gets the joke, but I can assure you he doesn’t. Later,
I’m
the one who has to deal with his bad mood.”

“Now
wait
a minute—” Alex objected.

“Hey, hey, hey, here’s my Lucky lady,” Charlie Dollar, movie icon supreme, drawled, sweeping in between them. “Got a big fat boner this joint’s gonna make it.”

“Charlie!” Lucky exclaimed, relieved to move away from Ling’s icy demeanor. “I’m so glad you could come.”