Lucky (53 page)

There was a wooden raft some way from the shore and she struck off toward it.

He was behind her.

If Dimitri thought – imagined – she was the kind of woman he could screw around on and get away with it, then he lived in a dream world. Lucky Santangelo could give as good as she got. And let nobody forget it.

The raft lay ahead, empty and inviting. What must it be like to be shipwrecked, cut off, alone in the world? She often felt alone in the world – Dimitri had done nothing to change that feeling.

They reached the raft together and hauled themselves aboard. He had caught her silent message and didn’t say a word. The sun was low in the sky and people on the beach were beginning to pack up and go home. A lone water-skier passed in the distance, causing the raft to rock as the waves hit. Their eyes met, and as if by unspoken agreement they moved closer. She was staring at him with those crazy gypsy eyes – black and wildly sensuous – the signal was clear.

He wanted to know who she was. What she was doing here. Everything about her intrigued him. But the timing was wrong and he knew it. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t go along with the game.

He reached out and pulled her to him. She moved into his embrace as naturally as if they had known each other for years. Electricity sparked as they began to kiss, long lingering kisses, tongues entwined.

Their bodies were wet. Salty flesh crushed against salty flesh. He pressed his hands into the small of her back and let her feel his hardness.

She didn’t draw away, but moved her hips slowly, suggestively. He ran his hands leisurely up her spine, felt for the end of her thick plait of hair, removed the rubber band and unplaited the luxuriant mane until it tumbled damply around her shoulders.

And all the while their lips were together, tantalizingly hot.

A motor boat passed nearby causing the raft to rock again. He held her tightly, expertly flicked open the clasp on her bikini top, let it drop, and felt the excitement of her bare breasts against his chest.

She trailed her hands very very slowly down his back, tracing patterns with her fingers, and when she reached the waistband of his shorts she drew her hands to the front and caressed his hardness through the material.

He groaned involuntarily, stepped back for a moment, and struggled out of his shorts, not caring if he was seen from the beach. Not caring about anything at all except this crazy real-life fantasy.

Her hands were on him, caressing, stroking, driving him nuts.

Control
, a voice screamed in his head.
Don’t blow it.

He reached for her breasts. Hard nipples, soft, firm contours. Beautiful. Perfect.

He peeled the bottom of her bikini down and she stepped out of it.

They sank onto the cold wet surface of the raft, neither of them noticing the discomfort. There was nothing awkward about their lovemaking. He entered her smoothly, and she wrapped her long legs tightly around his waist and moved with him as if they had been together many times before. Instinctively she knew his rhythm and he knew hers.

He was iron hard, but surfing only. The perfect wave was yet to arrive, and when it did he wanted them to ride it together.

An elderly Frenchman in a bathing cap swam toward the raft. He paused to catch his breath before climbing up, saw the entwined couple, and swam away again, thankful his disapproving wife was not with him.

Lucky closed her eyes and gave herself up to the moment. She had known, when she first set eyes on Lennie Golden, that he would be a sensational lover. And he was. And it frightened her – because this was supposed to be a mindless revenge move, just something to get her own back on Dimitri. And yet . . . it was more – much more. It was body talk at its most eloquent, and the last thing she needed in her life was another relationship.

She felt the roller-coaster ride beginning. And she knew, without a doubt, that this was not just another two-dollar trip. This was the big one, the double dipper, the whirl, the cartwheel twice over.

‘Oh God!’ she heard herself cry out. ‘Oh
Jeeeesus!’

And she was lost in sensation. Floating in paradise. Taken over by a throbbing release which sent her into spasms of delight.

Lennie felt the same way. The intensity and depth of his orgasm took him by surprise, leaving him shaken and drained. He lay on top of her for a moment, still joined, and stared into her eyes, so deep and full of secrets.

Who was she?

He had to know.

And yet . . . maybe her way was best. She was a woman of mystery, and obviously planned to stay that way. What was he going to say anyway?
I’d like to see you again.
Sure.
And I’ll bring my wife.

He rolled off her and groped for his shorts, thankful they hadn’t fallen in the sea.

She sat up, reached for her bikini, and put it on.

The sun was setting, and a chill pervaded the air. Two beachboys were stacking mattresses on the nearly deserted beach, and in the distance a blonde girl jogged by the seashore with a white police dog.

Lucky bent forward, shook out her hair, and casually knotted it on top of her head. She looked at Lennie once, briefly, and in the softest of voices murmured,
‘Sayonara
, friend.’ Then she dived from the side of the raft gracefully, and the last he saw of her were her strong brown arms flashing from the sea as she swam toward the shore.

He waited ten minutes before he followed. By the time he reached the beach she was gone, and he realized he would probably never see her again.

One afternoon’s fantasy . . . and he didn’t even know her name.

‘We’re havin’ dinner with the Spanish pimp, an’ Quinn. I think we got a deal.’

‘When?’ Eden asked quickly.

‘Tonight’, Santino replied, belching and scratching his stomach.

Eden bit back a sharp complaint. Why did he always tell her these things at the last minute? It was a quarter to six – how the hell could she look her best when they were probably meeting in an hour?

She got out of bed and hurried into her marble bathroom. ‘What time and where?’ she called out, turning on the shower.

‘I’m takin’ ya to Chasens,’ Santino announced. ‘Look hot – not too hot, it’s a classy joint.’

She gritted her teeth. He talked to her like she was some two-bit whore off the streets.

‘Be ready by seven-fifteen. Zeko will drive ya. I gotta go home now – I’ll see ya there.’

She didn’t bother to reply. She was already under the shower washing off his smell, shampooing her hair, feeling for the golden triangle and bringing herself to the climax he never managed to give her.

She didn’t need a lot of time to get ready. As a former model she had the drill down pat. Out of the shower, towel dry, plug in the heated rollers, splurge with the Estée body cream, spray on the Estée scent. Naked, she sat in front of her dressing-table mirror, cleansed her face with cotton wool and astringent, applied moisturizer, skin-tone base, shading, powder, blusher, eye shadow, eye-liner, mascara, eyebrow pencil, lip-liner, lipstick and lip gloss.

The whole routine took her fifteen minutes, and the effect was dynamite.

Next she blow-dried her fine hair and placed long coils of it in the heated rollers.

All she had left to do was decide what to wear, and that always took time. A large walk-in closet led off from the bathroom, and it was filled with clothes. She strolled up and down trying to select the perfect outfit. Something that would suit Santino, Quinn (a weirdo if she’d ever seen one), Vitos, and, of course, Chasens. Choosing the right ensemble for a restaurant was of paramount importance.

Outside her bathroom window, hidden among the dense lush foliage, Zeko finished jerking off. He had practically given up normal sex. Getting off on his boss’s girlfriend was the biggest kick of all.

He zipped up and returned to the house where he picked up a copy of
Auto Mechanic
and took it into the kitchen to read.

Eden selected a narrow black dress with a wide gold cinch belt. She pulled on black patterned pantyhose, stiletto heels, and a lacy bra. Then she removed the rollers from her hair and styled it.

She was ready at five after seven, and decided to arrive at Chasens early – hopefully before Santino. Even five or ten minutes of freedom was worth
something.

Zeko – the big ox – was in the kitchen reading. She was surprised he
could
read.

‘Let’s go,’ she announced impatiently.

‘The boss says we leave at quarter past.’

‘And I say we go now.’

She stared coldly at the hateful man, daring him to argue.

He didn’t.

*   *   *

Home for Santino Bonnatti was a gated mansion in Bel Air. Once the residence of a silent screen star, it now housed the Santino chapter of the Bonnatti family. Donatella, Santino’s wife, was a plain, grossly fat woman. She was a bride imported from Sicily eighteen years before, and her heart remained in the small village she had been plucked from.

There were four Bonnatti children ranging in ages from seven to seventeen, three girls (all unfortunately fat like their mother) and one boy (a replica of his father – with the added advantage of a full head of hair). The boy, named Santino junior, was the youngest child, and the spoiled favourite of both his mother and father – who vied to give him the most attention.

‘Santino!’ Donatella greeted him at the door of the mansion wringing her hands, her expressive eyes full of distress.

‘Santino junior – he sick. He gotta de fever. He
very
sick.’ She accused him with a look. ‘Where you bin, huh? I try calla your business – nothin’. Where you bin?’

Santino nearly slipped on the polished wood floor in his haste to rush upstairs and view his ‘very sick’ son for himself. Donatella did have a tendency to melodramatize.

‘I had a meetin’,’ he explained. Although explanations were not really necessary. He could do as he liked and they both knew it. So long as he sent money to her relatives, kept her and the children in the style they had grown accustomed to, and fucked her every couple of months. She was not demanding, but she did expect it every once in a while, and six times a year was not too bad.

She followed him upstairs, and was right behind him as he flung open the door to his son’s bedroom.

‘You see!’ she crowed triumphantly.

Santino junior lay in the centre of his bed, pyjamaed and flushed. A large screen television offered a Charles Bronson movie, and the room was extremely hot.

‘Son!’ exclaimed Santino, rushing to his bedside and placing a clammy hand on the boy’s forehead.

‘You see!’ repeated Donatella. ‘He’s gotta de fever!’

*   *   *

Eden entered Chasens like a star. She asked the maitre d’ for Mr Bonnatti’s table. He had no knowledge of a reservation for Mr Bonnatti. She suggested the table might be under Mr Quinn Leech’s name, or maybe even Vitos Felicidade.

‘Ah, Mr Felicidade,’ sighed the maitre d’, impressed at last. ‘This way, please.’

She didn’t have to follow him far, because Vitos was seated at a booth in the front room – he was with his manager – no sign yet of either Quinn or Santino.

‘Good evening,’ Eden said graciously, as both men struggled to stand. ‘Am I early? Or is everyone else late?’

‘It seems you are on time, my lady,’ crooned Vitos in his best English, executing a small formal bow. ‘And you are . . . ?’

Didn’t he remember her?

She
certainly
remembered
him.

‘Eden Antonio,’ she said smoothly, not allowing her aggravation to show. ‘We met in Las Vegas.’

‘Yes, of course,’ sighed Vitos, not remembering at all. He took her hand and bestowed a kiss.
‘Enchante, he
murmured.

She fluttered her eyelashes, a move she would not have dared make with Santino present. ‘Thank you,’ she said demurely.

Vitos’ manager thrust a hand in her direction. ‘You’re Quinn’s lady, right?’

‘No. I am not Quinn’s lady,’ she said shortly, furious at being mistaken for Quinn Leech’s dull-looking girlfriend. ‘I was in Vegas with Mr Bonnatti discussing my role in
My Life as a Call Girl.
I’m to star in the film, you know.’

She slid into the booth next to Vitos and ordered a Martini, not noticing that he and his manager exchanged puzzled looks.

‘I understand Mr Bonnatti is negotiating with you about co-starring with me,’ she said, determined that this time they would remember her. And how.

‘We speak ’bout movie,’ said Vitos apologetically, ‘but no call wimmen’s title.’

‘What?’ He was not easy to understand, but his broken English sounded charming.

‘Vitos means that we
are
discussing a film for him to star in. It’s called
The Singer,’
said his manager.

‘The Singer
?’ she asked blankly.

They were saved from answering by the arrival of Quinn Leech, alone and reeking of garlic and whisky. ‘Hiya all,’ he said and slid into the booth beside Eden, imprisoning her between himself and Vitos. ‘Where’s Santino?’