Authors: Jackie Collins
The Santangelos (33 page)
“Way.”
“Okay, Green Eyes,” he’d said, laughing. “Whatever you say.”
“I say that I will make my wish now, and that I’m not going to tell you what it is.”
“Great,” he’d said, handing her a coin. “’Cause you’re not supposed to.”
At the end of the evening he’d dropped her at the front of her hotel, brushing her lips for a chaste kiss before promising he’d call her tomorrow.
It was now tomorrow, and here she was at the Dolcezza press conference, smiling like an idiot because Billy was back in her life.
Or was he?
She couldn’t take anything for granted. He’d dumped her once—big-time—which meant that he was quite capable of doing it again.
Lucky would say,
Never let a boy get the better of you
.
Athena would say,
Go for it, girl. Use him like he used you
.
But who could be that cavalier when you totally loved someone?
Yes—she still loved him. Couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Surreptitiously, she checked her phone.
No call yet. It was still early. He
would
call. He’d promised he would.
Lorenzo was muttering in her ear, repeating a question one of the gathered journalists had asked her.
Their questions were so inane.
What’s it like being the new face of Dolcezza?
How do you enjoy Italian men/food/Roma/whatever?
She answered all questions with a smile and an enthusiastic reply, until it was time to do photos for the press photographers. Alfredo, Dante, and Lorenzo escorted her outside to a flower-filled garden, where the photographers went a little bit wild—yelling her name, telling her to look this way and that, capturing her from every angle. She had to admit that she was finding the full-on attention quite addictive. For once it was all about her; in London, it was usually all about Athena.
Eventually it was over, whereupon Dante turned to her and announced that he was taking her to lunch.
“Oh!” she said, startled and not at all pleased. “Can Lorenzo come?”
“We do not need Lorenzo,” Dante replied, throwing her a smarmy reptilian leer, which alarmed her even more.
“But … but he’s my translator,” she managed. “I depend on him.”
“Why would you need a translator when my English is impeccable?” Dante said. “I thought I told you that I attended college in your America.”
“My America?” she responded, thinking,
Who talks like this?
“I have slept with more American girls than I care to remember,” Dante boasted with a sneery smirk. “American girls are not exciting in bed. Poor girls, they try too hard, they have no real passion. They do not know how to please a man.”
This conversation sucked. The last thing she wished to hear about was Dante’s sex life.
“Excuse me a minute,” she gulped, rushing over to Lorenzo, who was speaking to Gabrielle. “Dante is insisting that he take me to lunch,” she whispered. “Can I say no?”
“You should go,” Lorenzo replied. “Stay on his good side. It would not be wise to have Dante as an enemy. He is one of your bosses, and you will need his permission to go to the States for your grandfather’s funeral. Remember, you have signed a contract.”
“But he hates me,” she wailed.
“How could anyone possibly hate you?” Lorenzo said soothingly. “You’re perfect.”
Max took a moment or two to process the word
perfect
. No one had ever called her perfect before. Wild, out of control, a pain in the ass—but never perfect. She kind of liked it. What a shame that Lorenzo was gay; he might’ve been a fun summer fling. He was polite and caring. Better to be with someone reliable instead of chasing a dream. Billy Melina wasn’t real. He was her fantasy, and there was no doubt that he’d break her heart again.
“Okay, I’ll go,” she said with a put-upon sigh. “Only that doesn’t mean I want to.”
Dante took her to an outdoor restaurant located on the Via Veneto. They were seated at a round table on a busy patio. It seemed Dante’s mood toward her had improved, and she had a strong feeling that it had something to do with Billy’s appearance the previous night.
Naturally, she was right. It didn’t take long for Dante to bring up the subject of Billy. As soon as they’d ordered—or rather, to her annoyance, Dante had ordered for her—he said, “Is Billy Melina your boyfriend?”
“Uh … no,” she answered carefully, although she really wanted to say,
None of your freaking business
.
“He seems to like you very much,” Dante observed.
“I’ve known him forever,” she said defensively, quickly adding, “He was married to my mom’s best friend.”
“It would not be such a bad thing if he
was
your boyfriend,” Dante said. “The publicity for Dolcezza…” He trailed off before adding a determined, “I will make him an offer he cannot refuse.”
“Excuse me?” Max said, startled. Did Dante imagine he was a character in
The Godfather
? What the hell kind of offer was he talking about?
“American movie stars do plenty of foreign commercials for the right price,” Dante continued. “George Clooney, Matt Damon. Dolcezza can afford to pay your boyfriend top
dinero
. He will agree.”
“I told you,” she said, exasperated that Dante wasn’t getting it. “Billy Melina is
not
my boyfriend, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t need your money.”
“So naive, so innocent,” Dante sneered, sipping from a glass of red wine. “You will not survive in this business unless you sharpen up.”
“I have no idea
what
you’re talking about,” Max said grandly, wishing she’d followed her instincts and refused to have lunch with this arrogant ass.
“I am talking about a Dolcezza commercial starring you and your boyfriend,” Dante said. “Ah … what a publicity coup that would be.”
“No way,” she said, her cheeks blazing. “Billy would never do that.”
“You will be surprised,” Dante said. “He likes you, and if you can’t see it, then you are even more naive than I thought. The Dolcezza PR people are already reaching out to his team, so we shall see.”
“See
what
?” she asked, outraged and embarrassed, because what if Billy thought this was
her
idea? Oh, the humiliation!
“Do not worry that he will take the attention away from you,” Dante said. “It will merely be for maximum publicity.”
“I’m not worried,” she said stiffly. “And I have a really bad headache, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll be going back to my hotel.”
Dante let loose with his disgusting yellow-toothed smile. “I will keep you informed,” he promised.
Don’t bother,
she wanted to scream.
Billy will never do it. Of that I’m sure
.
Five minutes after Pablo dismissed him, Rafael borrowed a car from the compound and took off to visit Elizabetta and his son. He drove fast, in a hurry, for he hadn’t seen them in over a year. This was a big day for him.
Elizabetta was an old-fashioned girl, a virgin when they’d first met. She was a girl with family values and a pure heart, unlike the
putas
he’d come across in America. The downside was that she had no desire to learn technology, which meant that even though he’d bought her a laptop, which would enable them to Skype, allowing him to see his son, she’d stubbornly refused to use it.
As he drove along the winding road, Willow came to mind.
Willow with her pale red hair and pouty lips.
Willow with her hard nipples and pulsating—
Stop,
he told himself.
Stop thinking about the girl who trapped you into doing depraved and dirty things
.
He forced his mind elsewhere.
His thoughts turned to Pablo. The big man hadn’t said yes and he hadn’t said no. He’d ordered Rafael to join him for dinner at seven
P.M.
, telling him that he would advise him of his decision then.
Rafael had the day ahead of him, and he was intent on making the most of it. Alejandro had warned him not to linger in Colombia. “Get the job done, and fly right back,” Alejandro had said. “Otherwise…”
Oh yes, Rafael understood only too well what “otherwise” meant. It meant that Alejandro would send Elizabetta the depraved sex tape he’d been captured on with the American
puta
.
How could he have allowed himself to get caught in such a situation?
Because he’d been trapped, well and truly trapped.
Alejandro was nothing to him. He loathed his brother with all his being.
* * *
Spago, one of the best restaurants in Beverly Hills, was crowded, as usual.
Willow sauntered in as if she owned the place. She never had any problem getting into exclusive restaurants; everyone knew who she was.
The girls at the front desk smiled at her. “Who will you be joining?” one of them asked.
“Uh … I have a message for Eddie Falcon,” she said, tossing back her pale red hair. “Can you point me in the right direction?”
“Of course, Willow,” the hostess said.
Willow did not appreciate being addressed by her first name. Surely she should be Ms. Price? Would they call Angelina Jolie Angelina? No. It would be Ms. Jolie all the way. Or maybe even Mrs. Pitt.
The hostess slipped out from behind the reception desk and said, “This way, Willow. Follow me.”
Another Willow. No respect. When she won her first Oscar, things would definitely have to change.
She trailed the attractive girl (probably an out-of-work actress) to the outside patio.
Eddie was ensconced at a table for three with Annabelle and Annabelle’s extremely famous action-movie-star father, Ralph.
Willow had not expected to see Ralph Maestro. He was an intimidating figure, big and macho with a weathered tan, huge hands, and a cheesy smile. Rumor had it that he’d murdered his very beautiful and equally famous wife, Gemma Summer. Naturally, he’d gotten away with it. Of course he had. He was Ralph Maestro, an action-movie hero, not a mere mortal capable of murder.
Willow hovered by their table as the hostess took off.
“Eddie,” she said, feigning surprise. “How lovely to see you.”
Eddie shot her a deadly look. What the hell was
she
doing here?
“Hey, Willow,” he said, aware that Annabelle was on alert, checking Willow out. A month before he and Annabelle had gotten married, she’d forced him to sign a prenup with all kinds of stupid clauses. One of them was that if either of them was caught cheating, it triggered a $250,000 penalty. He’d wanted the marriage to happen, so he’d signed. Now he regretted doing so, because cheating was part of his DNA.
“I’m lunching with Sam Slade,” Willow lied, smiling prettily. “You know, the writer dude. We have much to discuss.”
Ralph Maestro, a tried-and-true letch, launched into action. “Well, aren’t
you
a pretty little thing,” he said, cheesy smile going full force.
“Uh, everyone, this is Willow Price, a former client,” Eddie said. “Willow—meet my wife, Annabelle, and her father, Ralph Maestro.”
“Oh,” Willow cooed. “Everyone knows who Mr. Maestro is. No introductions needed. I’m a huge fan.”
Or rather, my mother is,
she thought.
Ralph responded with an even cheesier smile. “If your lunch date isn’t here yet,” he said, “how about joining us while you wait?”
Willow fluttered her eyelashes. Eddie glowered. Annabelle managed to look disinterested.
“Thanks,” Willow said. “That’s if nobody minds, ’cause I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
“Sit down, sweetie,” Ralph said, pulling out a chair. “You’re not interrupting a thing.”
Ralph Maestro was a man used to getting his own way. And today—after hearing the news that he was to become a grandfather—getting his own way meant getting laid. And fast.
Granddad was not a title Ralph Maestro relished.
* * *
Elizabetta’s mother’s house was located in a poor neighborhood with unpaved streets and stray dogs roaming around scrounging for food scraps. Rafael had begged her to move somewhere safer, but Elizabetta preferred to stay close to her mama.
A slender girl with a sweep of straight black hair that fell below her waist, Elizabetta had huge sad eyes in a delicate face and a pointed chin. Rafael Junior was perched on her hip. At two years of age, the child was a miniature version of his mama, with the same sad eyes and pointy chin, the same long straight black hair.
Elizabetta was standing in front of the run-down house waiting for him. Rafael pulled the car to a stop and jumped out. His gut reaction upon seeing his son was that the boy could easily be mistaken for a girl. This angered him, and without thinking he blurted, “Get this kid a haircut. What is wrong with you?”
Elizabetta took a step back. “Is that how you greet us?” she said, her sad eyes flashing signs of disappointment and anger. “Rafael Junior is a beautiful boy. He does not have to have short hair for everyone to know it.”
Rafael gave her a long hard look. “If you don’t cut his hair, I will,” he warned, his face darkening.
Elizabetta hunched her shoulders. “What does it matter to you?” she said flatly. “You never see him anyway.”
“I am here now.”
“For how long?”
Was she questioning him? Surely this was not the way things were supposed to go. Surely Elizabetta should have fallen into his arms, grateful and thrilled to see him. Instead she was surly and confrontational.
“Hand me the boy,” he said roughly, holding out his arms.
Rafael Junior clung on to his mama, making high-pitched whining sounds.
“What’s the matter with him?” Rafael demanded.
“He doesn’t know you,” she responded. “You scare him.”
“Doesn’t know me indeed,” Rafael scoffed. “What kind of nonsense it that?”
“I barely know you myself,” she muttered. “You never come here. You leave me all alone with a child to raise while you do whatever it is you do in America.”
“I work,” he said. “I work hard to save enough money for us and our son to get away from here someday, to live a normal life.”