Lucky (9 page)

Olympia was more than a little aggravated that she had been forced to bring Brigette and Nanny with her. But her mother had insisted the child be flower girl at the wedding, and Olympia was unable to summon up a suitable excuse.

Her mother, Charlotte, was a chic American society matron. She had married Dimitri Stanislopoulos at the age of twenty against violent parental objection, given birth to Olympia nine months later, and divorced her husband after a year. Then she had returned to America, and within a year remarried, this time to a Wall Street banker with her parents’ full approval. For the first twelve years of her life Olympia had lived with them in America, but when puberty struck, she became unmanageable and screamed to be allowed to live with her father who flitted between his Greek island, his yacht, and his mansion in Paris. They compromised, and sent her to a series of boarding schools – all of which she managed to get thrown out of. Eventually she got her wish and moved in with Dimitri, who treated her as just another houseguest.

Charlotte’s banker husband, a stepfather who Olympia never warmed to, had passed away a year previously. Now Charlotte had a new prospect ready for the altar. A film producer whom Olympia had no desire to meet.

‘Mama,’ said Brigette, as they were escorted out of customs. ‘I see the men with the cameras.’ At nine she spoke three languages fluently.

‘Head down, eyes straight ahead,’ warned Nanny Mabel sternly. ‘Never acknowledge their presence.’

Olympia touched her golden curls, fluffed them out a little. She hated the paparazzi, but if they were going to catch you – well, one may as well appear at one’s best. It wouldn’t do to be seen looking like Christina Onassis. She adjusted her dark glasses, and smoothed down the skirt of her Saint Laurent suit.

The cameramen leaped into action.

It wasn’t easy being one of the richest women in the world.

*   *   *

Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not interested in the showgirl Matt Traynor had arranged for his pleasure. She was young and not even all that pretty. He was sixty-two years old. He did not need the boring conversation of a woman forty years younger. He preferred to play baccarat, so Matt set him up at a private table with several other high-rolling guests. There was a male singing star wearing a bad toupee; an Italian Contessa with skin the colour and texture of baked mud; two Japanese electronics kings; and the English girlfriend of an Arab munitions dealer.

Dimitri knew the woman. He nodded at her. She nodded back. He found her a far more interesting proposition than the vacuous showgirl.

‘Where is Saud?’ he asked, swooping to kiss her hand.

‘L.A.,’ she replied. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow. I’m keeping his seat warm.’

And more than that, Dimitri thought. He liked English women. In bed, they had a certain whore-like quality. Very appealing. And he should know, his mistress for the last eight years was a world-renowned English stage actress. Francesca Fern, an immense talent and flamboyant personality. She was fifty years old with flame-red hair, piercing eyes, succulent lips, and a beaky nose to rival his own. Francesca. What a woman! He loved her power, her dramatic presence, and her passion.

Ah . . . her passion. She was the most exciting woman he had ever bedded. And that was saying something, since he had slept with many of the most beautiful and cultured women in Europe.

Dimitri liked expensive women who knew all about the finer things in life. He liked them clad in sable, with jewellery from Cartier and Aspreys and Bulgari. He liked them in Dior clothes with designer underwear and five hundred dollar shoes. He liked them to know all about good food, fine wine, classical music, opera, and the ballet.

He liked breeding. And he did not mind paying for it.

During their affair, he had gifted Francesca with a king’s ransom in jewellery. She accepted everything he gave her with a knowing glint in her eye and a husky ‘thank you, darling’ as if the prizes he found for her were no more than trinkets.

He admired her tremendous style. He did not admire her husband, a puny little man called Horace whom she resolutely refused to divorce. They had enjoyed some of their hotter fights concerning Horace.

‘Leave him!’ Dimitri would bellow.

‘I can’t,’ Francesca would reply dramatically. ‘It will kill him. I am his life.’ And tears would fill her heavily outlined eyes.

‘But I want to marry you,’ Dimitri would shout.

‘One day,’ Francesca would husk vaguely, ‘we will be together forever.’

In the meantime, Horace did not interfere with their tempestuous affair. He put up with it, as he put up with most things in life, and stayed quietly in the background of his wife’s volatile life. Once a year they rendezvoused on Dimitri’s palatial ocean-going yacht. Francesca and Horace, accompanied by her personal maid, her own hairdresser, and sometimes her two ancient Pekinese dogs.

Dimitri always invited other guests for the August cruise. It was a time he looked forward to, because he had Francesca to himself – well almost. She spent every night in his stateroom. He never
had
found out how she explained this to Horace. He never really cared. Horace must know. Horace was complaisant.

Occasionally they met in other parts of the world. New York, Paris, Rome. Even when he married for the second time they continued to meet. His second marriage lasted no longer than his first. Dimitri Stanislopoulos was not an easy man to live with.

The baccarat game was starting. ‘What’s the limit at this table?’ Dimitri asked one of the steely-eyed croupiers.

‘Six thousand dollars, Mr Stanislopoulos,’ replied the man, expressionless.

‘Give me two hundred thousand dollars worth of chips.’

Deftly, the man piled gold five-hundred-dollar chips in neat stacks and pushed them in front of him. Unobtrusively a marker was produced for his signature.

Dimitri liked to gamble. It relaxed him. And he needed to relax, for Francesca was arriving in two days’ time to attend a televised gala evening in her honour, and he had finally decided. Eight years was long enough. One way or another Horace had to go.

‘Hey,’ said Lucky. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘What’s the matter with
me?
replied Lennie, outraged.

They faced each other warily in the opulent luxury of the darkened hotel suite. She had said, ‘You’re just the man I’m looking for.’ Then she had taken him by the hand, added mysteriously, ‘Come with me.’ And led him to the nearest elevator. Once inside the suite she had pressed against him, kissed him long and hard, then groped him intimately.

He was not yet in a gropable state. In fact he was trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

‘Are you selling it?’ he asked.

‘Are you kidding?’ she had replied, and proceeded to remove her dress.

He had said, ‘Hold it, I don’t want you to do that.’

Now they were ready for battle.

‘You got a problem?’ she sighed.

‘Yeah. I think I got a problem.’

A shrug of impatience. Obviously she had picked the wrong guy.

‘What is it?’ she asked disinterestedly, zipping up the soft leather dress she had been about to step out of. May as well end
this
scene. And fast.

Lennie stared at her in amazement. He did not believe what was happening. Here was this woman – this strikingly
beautiful
woman whom he had first spotted at the airport, spoken to by the pool – and been insulted for his trouble. Then she had appeared in the Bahia lounge and
walked out on his act.
Now she was corning on to him like a steamroller, and expected instant action. What did she think he was – a travelling stud with no feelings? She could be the most gorgeous woman in the world, but sex with no communication was just not for him. He wasn’t sixteen and desperate to get laid.

‘My problem is I don’t even know your name, let alone what’s going on,’ he said tightly.

‘Oh, and if I tell you my name will that make everything all right?’ she mocked, all zipped up and ready to leave.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said angrily.

‘No. I don’t know what you mean.’ Coolly she strolled toward the door. ‘It’s simple really. I saw you. Liked you. Thought that maybe the two of us might equal great sex. Obviously I was wrong.’

‘How come you didn’t think we equalled great sex this afternoon?’ he said quickly.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘This afternoon. Out by the pool. When I spoke to you and you gave me the icy treatment.’

‘Was that you?’

Jesus! She didn’t even remember him. And he was supposed to get a hard-on?

‘Look,’ she said impatiently, hand on the doorknob, ‘I’m sure we’ve all made mistakes before. Why don’t we just forget the whole thing?’

Lennie had been through a lot of women in his time, but this one took the prize. Even Eden would never behave like this.

He wished she wasn’t so goddamn horny-looking. How could he let her walk out when she was offering a trip he’d probably never forget?

He decided to put a little charm back into his act. ‘You know what I think?’ he said. ‘I think that maybe we should start from page one, go downstairs, find a bar, have a drink, and get to know each other. Hey – at least exchange names. And then, beautiful lady, we can have
really
great sex. What do you say?’

She was bored with Lennie Golden. The entire incident was a mistake. She opened the door and headed for the elevator. ‘Let’s just forget it,’ she said off-handedly.

He followed, grabbed her by the arm. ‘Let’s not.’

Now that he couldn’t get it up he was not going to be easy to shake. Masculine pride or some such crap. ‘Hmmm . . .’ she said. ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

He had her. They were all easy. One drink, maybe two,
then
they would go to bed with
him
calling the shots.

‘You go on down to the Bahia, order me a Bloody Mary. I just want to freshen up.’ She smiled. ‘Five minutes, okay?’

*   *   *

Lennie leaned across the green baize of Jess’s blackjack table. She dealt like greased lightning, her eyes never leaving the shiny box known as the shoe, which held the cards.

‘Don’t bother to wait, I won’t be coming home tonight,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Why do you think not? The Golden charm works again.’

‘Really? Who’d you score with this time?’

‘Are we playin’ or talkin’,’ demanded a belligerent blonde in a sequinned tank top. ‘Gimme a card.’

Jess grimaced, pulled a three from the shoe, with sleight of hand magically turned it into a nine – thereby putting sequinned tank top over twenty-one and out.

‘Aw, crap!’ the woman exclaimed loudly.

Jess allowed herself a secret wink in Lennie’s direction. ‘Call me,’ she mouthed. She didn’t usually play God with the cards, but sometimes she just couldn’t help it.

Lennie grinned and strolled away. Now that his evening was set he felt pretty good. They had loved him in the Bahia lounge – given him a great reception. His two week gig was going to be a big success – he could feel it. Now he had this wild-looking female to deal with – and she looked like more than enough to occupy him for two weeks. Maybe even make him forget Eden, although he doubted if she could do that. He wondered what her name was, what she was doing in Vegas, what she would be like in bed . . .

Yeah . . . a two week relationship would suit him fine. He had had it with heavy involvements. First they stayed the night, next the weekend, finally they took over everything, until taking a shower was one long obstacle course strewn with panty-hose and bras.

He hurried into the Bahia lounge, ordered himself a beer and a Bloody Mary for her . . . whatever her name was. He would know soon enough. He would know more than her name.

*   *   *

Matt Traynor’s apartment was decorated in early nouveauriche. A lot of ornamental gilt, black fur, fake marble, and damask couches. A sign behind the bar read ‘Matt’s Place’, and his lead crystal glasses were embossed with his initials, as were his shirts, socks, undershorts, sheets, towels, and pyjamas.

‘Wow!’ exclaimed his date, six months out of Ohio and impressed. ‘What a
fabulous
place.’

He poured her undiluted Scotch, switched Sinatra on the stereo, and adjusted the pink lighting to low.

‘Wow!’ said Miss Ohio. ‘What a
fabulous
singer. Who is it?’

‘Are you jesting with me, young lady?’

‘What?’

He wondered if she gave blow jobs.

‘Sinatra,’ he said.

‘Oh.
Fabulous!
’

‘
You’re
fabulous.’

She giggled inanely, and sucked suggestively on an ice-cube.

‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘you’re the most fabulous girl I’ve seen all year.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

He reached for her left boob and circled the nipple with his thumb.