Drop Dead Beautiful (55 page)

Oh no, she was a Santangelo—this time she was going to nail his ass.

Chapter 87

Irma sat extremely still, her hands clasped on her lap. She was on one side of Anthony, Emmanuelle on the other.

The Grill was back at the other hotel with Francesca and Anthony was busy ogling the models.

What could he do to her if she got up and walked out? He couldn’t cause a scene, the place was too packed. He couldn’t stop her. In fact, there was nothing he could do.

Yes, exactly nothing, except have her parents murdered and their home burned to the ground, and after he’d arranged that, come after her with a vengeance.

She was trapped with this despicable man, unless Oliver came through for her. She’d spoken to him briefly, managed to tell him what she’d witnessed regarding Luis, and he’d promised to get in touch with the police in Mexico City to see if they could track anything.

She’d told him where she was and then offered him information in return for her rescue, but before he could reply, the battery on the cell had given out. Then she’d heard Anthony yelling for her outside the ladies’ room, and she’d quickly handed the phone back to the woman she’d borrowed it from and hurried outside.

Now she was being forced to watch a lingerie show with her psychotic husband and his tramp mistress.

The models paraded down the runway, strutting their goods, twirling and turning in the briefest of teddies and sexy little numbers, the music blaring. Every man in the place was mesmerized—every man except Alex, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about a parade of half-naked models. He was more interested in finding out what Ling had in mind sending Lucky a series of sick notes. How
dare
she.

“Give me your purse,” he said, trying to jerk it away from her. “I want to see how many of these pathetic notes you’ve got hidden away.”

“No!” Ling responded, making him all the more anxious to take a look. “I will not.”

“Oh, yes you will.”

“Stop bullying me, Alex.”

“When you start telling me what the hell you hoped to achieve.”

As Max raced for help, she ran into Cookie and two beefy security guards.

“Quick!” she gasped. “Hurry! I think he’s got a gun.”

“Who’s got a gun, miss?” asked one of the security guards, pulling out his own weapon.

“The freak who tried to kidnap me,” she said, starting to run back in the direction of the spa.

“Kidnap you?” the other guard said disbelievingly.

“This is Lucky Santangelo’s daughter,” Cookie interjected. “So unless you’re all planning on getting fired, let’s move it, guys.”

Both guards began to run, and within moments they arrived outside the spa to find Ace and Henry wrestling on the ground trading punches.

Security guard number one trained his weapon on them. “Quit it,
now!”
he commanded, as Ace got in one last punch, a satisfactory blow to the freak’s jaw.

And then it was over.

Henry stood up. “This boy jumped me,” he blustered. “The two of them were trying to rob me.”

And while he was speaking, Max mustered all her strength and kicked him in the balls.

“That’s for everything,” she said as he crumpled to the ground. “And my name is Max. M-A-X. Don’t ever forget it.”

Enjoy the show,” Anthony whispered in Irma’s ear. “ ’Cause tomorrow I’m sendin’ you to a place where the only show’s gonna be
you.”

Irma stared at her vile husband. “You’re a bloodthirsty monster, you know that?” she said, loathing him with a hatred she had not thought herself capable of. “You took away a man’s life for doing something
you
do every day. You’re no better than a savage.”

“Tomorrow,” Anthony taunted as a six-foot blonde in revealing leopard-print lingerie sashayed past on the runway, “I’m sendin’ you to a place where you’ll get to fuck ten men a day. An’ you’re gonna get off on it, Irma, ’cause you’re a born fuckin’ whore.”

Before she could process what he was saying, a big commotion started happening with the people sitting on the other side of her—an Asian woman and her male companion.

The scuffle was over the woman’s purse, which the man was attempting to wrest from her grasp.

Suddenly a gun fell out of the purse onto the ground.

Without thinking clearly, Irma bent down and quickly picked it up.

She held it for a moment, the image of Luis being tortured flashing before her eyes. Then she turned to Anthony, who started to say, “What the fuck—”

Raw fear flicked across his face as she raised the gun and pointed it straight at him. He knew what she was about to do before she knew it herself.

Quite calmly she flicked off the safety catch, and shot her husband right between the eyes.

Anthony Bonnatti died within seconds.

At last Irma was truly free.

EPILOGUE

Six Months Later

Detective Franklin got her man. Only he happened to be dead at the time—shot in the face by his distraught wife, whom he’d forced to watch the torture and murder of one of his employees.

Detective Franklin didn’t know who’d sent her the bloodstained bathrobe and a map leading to Tasmin Garland’s body, although she had her suspicions.

What she
did
know was that it was a good thing. Anthony Bonar was guilty. Dead or alive.

Oliver Stanton almost got his man too. But his man was dead on arrival. By the time he arrived in Las Vegas, Anthony Bonar was lying on a slab in the police morgue.

Unfortunate for Oliver, because he’d finally gotten the one break he’d been hoping for regarding the man he’d been tracking for two long and tedious years.

And now it didn’t matter. Now all his hard work was for nothing.

Francesca Bonnatti expired within moments of her grandson being shot. She was lying on her bed in the bungalow at the Cavendish, and she went peacefully with a satisfied smile on her face.

Anthony had been with her since he was twelve. She was not allowing him to go anywhere without her.

Emmanuelle returned to Miami, but since nothing was in her name, she was forced to relinquish her car and vacate her apartment. Her jewelry she kept—she wasn’t giving
that
up.

She called the producer she’d met at the Keys party, and he offered her a job in L.A. Little did she know he was the biggest producer of porn on the West Coast.

Emmanuelle was determined to become a star—one way or the other.

Carlita stayed in New York. She was a savvy businesswoman, and everything Anthony Bonar had invested in her design business was all hers. She gave The Grill a job as her head of security. He was eternally grateful.

Carlita was a woman who knew how to look after herself.

Irma Bonar was arrested and charged with murder. After all the evidence was reviewed and the lawyers got together with the D.A., the charge was eventually reduced to manslaughter. Luis’s mutilated body had been discovered buried under the rubble of a building site in Mexico City, along with a security guard from the Bonar estate. The security guard’s name was Cesar.

Irma was given three years’ probation.

As soon as she was able, she presented the house outside Mexico City to Luis’s family as a gift, then she signed over the Acapulco villa to Rosa and Manuel.

Irma knew that both gestures of generosity and kindness would have driven Anthony insane. The thought comforted her.

She put the rest of Anthony’s fortune into trusts for her children, and bought herself a house in Omaha, near her
parents. She moved there with Carolina and Eduardo, both of whom objected furiously.

She didn’t care, she knew they’d soon settle into a normal life. And so would she.

Needless to say, Alex Woods and Ling did not stay together. His fury about the notes she’d been sending to Lucky was palpable. And what the hell had she been doing with his unlicensed gun in her purse? That was not easy to explain.

He’d always known Ling was envious of the strong bond he shared with Lucky, but it was too bizarre to imagine she’d been planning to
shoot
her.

No way. Not even Ling was
that
crazy. Ling moved out and he was happy about it. No more nagging, no more flowers in his house or a fridge full of food. Once more he was a free soul, and that’s the way he liked it. Nothing could change the way he felt about Lucky. She was his friend. She would always be his friend.

And while Lennie was around, that’s the way it had to stay.

To Renee’s surprise, Susie was right, and the Keys opening next door to the Cavendish turned out to be excellent for business. Receipts at the Cavendish were up twenty percent on the year before.

Renee did not mourn Anthony Bonar. He’d got what he’d been asking for. After all, one bad turn deserves another.

Renee vowed to clean up her act and be more like Susie. Good karma was important.

So far it seemed to be working.

Venus married Billy back in L.A. several weeks after the drama at the Keys. They both decided their wedding should not take place on the same night as a violent shooting.

Two days before their wedding, Kev got his marriage annulled. Ali was not exactly a girl to settle down with. Neither Venus nor Billy was surprised.

Billy bought Venus an eight-carat diamond ring, and she bought him a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari he’d been coveting.

Together they purchased the last available penthouse at the Keys.

Billy got off on being married to Venus—he’d never felt so complete.

Venus loved being married to Billy—he was funny and loving and, most of all, he was hers.

The age difference didn’t matter to either of them. Like Lucky and Lennie, they both finally felt they’d found their soulmate.

The tabloids existed in a state of ecstasy. Now that their favorite twosome were married, they could speculate about when the divorce would take place. Or even better—when would Venus get pregnant?

The headlines never stopped.

Gino returned to Palm Springs with Paige. Funny how things worked out. He’d sensed that Anthony Bonar was trouble, but he’d never imagined he’d get shot by his own wife.

The Bonnatti family had never had much luck. Too bad. Or not.

At ninety-five Gino felt fortunate to be a survivor. Getting old was a bitch, but it was better than the alternative.

The Santangelo-Golden family declined to press charges against Henry Whitfield-Simmons. Both Lucky and Lennie decided that Max had endured enough, and they did not want to see her dragged through court testifying against him.

So Henry was released, and he drove back to the Pasadena mansion where he was promptly arrested for the murder of his mother. An autopsy, which he had not realized
had taken place, had revealed that Penelope Whitfield-Simmons had been suffocated to death. The prime suspect was Henry. Proving that he’d done it was not difficult.

Max confessed everything to her parents. They weren’t mad, they were concerned and relieved.

“Family is everything,” Lucky told her. “And even though you didn’t tell us the truth, we still love you very very much. But if anything like this
ever
happens again and you don’t tell us, that’s it, you’ll be grounded forever!”

Max loved her mom. Lucky was tough, but she always came through when it mattered.

Ace stayed around. He wasn’t mad about the L.A. lifestyle, but as he said to Max, “You need me to watch out for you, so I guess I’m gonna have to spend more time here.”

“Cool with me,” she’d said, trying not to sound too happy about it.

And finally she got the kiss she’d been hoping for.

Yes. It was worth the wait.

Lucky and Lennie continued their life of married bliss. Even when they were apart, it felt as if they were together.

Lennie went off and made his movie in Canada. Lucky spent several days a week in Vegas overseeing the Keys, which was an enormous success.

She spoke to Bobby almost every day, and he assured her he was keeping in touch with Brigette—in fact, he’d introduced her to one of his friends and they seemed to be getting involved.

The club business was booming.

“I’m opening in L.A.,” he warned Lucky. “So you’d better watch out, I’m getting closer every day!”

“I’m shaking!” she joked.

Finally the family house in Malibu was ready to move back into. Lucky and Lennie drove there together.

Lucky Santangelo and Lennie Golden. Two of a kind.

Read on for an excerpt from
Jackie Collins’
next book

Married Lovers

Coming soon in hardcover from
St. Martin’s Press

Chapter 1

Cameron Paradise hit
Bounce
the private “members only” fitness club, running—literally.

“ ‘Morning,” she said breathlessly, waving at Lynda, the pretty Latina girl perched behind the white wicker reception desk. “Am I late?” she added. “Is my eight o’clock here yet?”

“Of
course
he is,” Lynda said, rolling her expressive brown eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “Mister old fart himself is ready and waiting with the same filthy mouth as usual. Nothing changes.”