Double Lucky (18 page)

The woman heard him and stopped abruptly. “
What
you say?” she demanded, several wobbly chins quivering with indignation. “What you
damn
say?”

“I wasn't talking to you,” he muttered.

“You'd better watch your mouth,” she snorted, marching away.

Watch his mouth? All he'd said was, “Don't touch me, you fat bag of lard.”

He hated being out amongst the common people; it was beneath him. He was Henry Whitfield-Simmons, a special man, a privileged man. He could not abide crowds—they made him feel insecure. Not that the Kmart store was crowded. There were very few people walking around, and that was good.

So where was she? Max Maria Santangelo Golden. Where the hell was she?

He limped to the front of the store and stood outside, his eyes scanning the street.

She was there, somewhere. He knew it.

Now all he had to do was find her.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Halfway to New York, Anthony changed his mind. “Tell the pilot to reroute, we're flying to Miami,” he informed The Grill.

The big man didn't argue—even though they'd been in Miami less than twenty-four hours earlier. Whatever Anthony Bonar wanted, he got.

The Grill informed the pilot of their change in destination. The pilot, who had a wife and two kids waiting in New York, was disgruntled. He carried on about air-traffic control and landing permission.

The Grill told him to work it out.

Anthony owned a luxurious waterfront home in Miami where his two teenage kids lived with their English nanny, while Francesca resided on the property in a guesthouse he'd had specially built to her specifications. Emmanuelle lived nearby in a magnificent Ocean Drive penthouse—
his
penthouse, because he'd never put anything in her name. If Emmanuelle ever decided to leave him, she left with nothing. He was no fool. He'd even made Irma sign a postmarriage prenuptial giving her practically nothing should they ever divorce—which was unlikely, because having a wife was excellent insurance as far as protecting himself from other women.

Anthony never did anything without thinking about it first. He was smart that way; his grandfather had taught him well. “When it comes to women, ya gotta use your head,” Enzio had often lectured. “Your dick is for fuckin' 'em, an' your head is for fuckin' 'em in a different way. Don't never forget that.”

For a brief moment Anthony thought about Tasmin. He hoped that by this time Renee had disposed of the girl way out in the desert, buried where nobody would find her. The authorities could add her name to the hundreds of people who went missing every day in America. She was a bank manager, for chrissakes. Who gave a damn? It wasn't like he'd fucked a movie star and snapped her neck.

Renee was upset with him, but that wouldn't last. She was smart enough not to piss him off. And if she was
really
smart, she'd never mention Tasmin again. It was over, done with, there was no going back.

By the time his plane landed in Miami, it was late morning. He had a choice: Should he go to his home, or should he go straight to Emmanuelle's apartment? He decided to surprise Emmanuelle.

His number-one mistress lived in a white Art Deco building right in the middle of Ocean Drive. The doorman knew him. Unbeknownst to Emmanuelle, Anthony paid both the night and day porters to give him a full report of her activities.

The day porter, a Hispanic man with bad teeth and an unruly mass of frizzy hair, greeted him with an ingratiating leer. “Señor Bonar, eez pleasure to see you back so soon.”

“Anything to report?” Anthony said, not in the mood for pleasantries.

“Nothing,
señor
, all is quiet.” The day porter lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She's had no visitors. I watch. I see.”

Anthony gave a curt nod and moved away from the man who never failed to annoy him. He stepped into the elevator with The Grill right behind him. He always kept The Grill in close proximity since he never knew what dangers were lurking. His connections were varied, and sometimes not so trustworthy. He also had to be on the alert for undercover cops who often attempted to infiltrate his business. Fortunately, he had a nose for smelling them out, and when he did, he either added them to his extensive payroll, or their careers turned out to be short-lived.

He entered Emmanuelle's apartment with his key and discovered her asleep in the bedroom, naked beneath peach-colored satin sheets. Emmanuelle was a true diva in training—she went for all the trimmings: satin sheets, sumptuous cushions, and huge fur throws. It always surprised Anthony that she was able to sleep on the slick satin sheets, because whenever
he
lay down on them, he had the distinct sensation that his ass was about to slide right off the bed. Damn sheets! But if they made her happy …

Stripping off his clothes, he dumped them on the floor before climbing into bed beside her. No Viagra today, with Emmanuelle he didn't always need it.

Smoothing his hand over her bare ass, he began sliding his fingers into the crack.

“Honey bunch, it's you,” she murmured, rapidly waking up. “What're you doing here?”

“I'm back,” he announced, as if she wasn't already aware of his presence.

“You only just left,” she said, yawning. “Are you checking up on me?”

“I check up on you all the time,” he said with a smug smile. “Only you don't know it.”

“You do?” she responded, thinking to herself,
I might look like a bimbo, but I'm well aware he pays people to watch me. I would never be dumb enough to bring a guy here for that reason. I'd go to their place or we'd check into a hotel.

It was actually quite fortunate she was back in her own bed, because the previous night she'd gone out dancing and a couple of smokin' guys had definitely caught her attention. She'd flirted a lot, been tempted, then decided she was too tired from her photo shoot to do anything about it, so she'd come home. Alone. Thank God! Because here was Anthony, back again, and she hadn't been expecting him for another couple of weeks.

“How come you're back so soon?” she asked, her delicate fingers fluttering over his chest, twirling his coarse black chest hairs around her fingers. She knew he liked it when she touched him there.

“Must've missed you,” he said, his hand diving between her legs.

“Oooh,” she murmured, wriggling away from him. “Baby's gotta take a shower.”

“You don't wanna do that,” he said. “'Cause I wanna fuck you just the way you are.”

*   *   *

Back in Las Vegas, Renee Falcon was crazed with fury—a cold, hard, hopeless fury she knew she had to keep to herself, because what else could she do? Anthony Bonar had come into town, she'd fixed him up with a date, and he'd left her with a dead body that he expected
her
to dispose of.

He'd given her no choice. She couldn't report him to the cops, and she certainly couldn't allow a body to be discovered on the premises of her hotel.

She'd known Tasmin from her dealings with the bank, and although they were not exactly friends—more casual acquaintances—she'd always liked her. Tasmin was smart, a hard worker, and the mother of a ten-year-old boy. She was also—according to rumors—a swinger. So Renee had thought that fixing her up with Anthony might work for both of them. Now this horrible tragedy.

Jesus Christ! It wasn't as if Tasmin was some out-of-town runaway whose body could be disposed of and nobody would ask any questions. There'd be plenty of questions about Tasmin.

Renee was acutely aware that they'd all been seen together at the hotel restaurant, which meant there were probably witnesses who would have observed Tasmin leaving with Anthony.

Damn Anthony Bonar. Underneath the relentless grooming and five-thousand-dollar suits lurked a murderous blackmailing chauvinist greedy thug. Yes, that's what he was. A dangerous killer with absolutely no conscience.

Renee realized she'd have to pay a great many people off to make this go away. And would Anthony recompense her? No. He was a cheap motherfucker on top of everything else. He was supposed to pay half of Tucker Bond's astronomical fee, and so far, every time she asked him for it, he stonewalled her. Maybe she should cancel the whole damn thing.

Right now she had to concentrate on the task at hand. Job number one was disposing of the body—a costly undertaking, but one she could make happen. After the body was gone she had to arrange for the room to be thoroughly cleaned, the sheets disposed of, fingerprints removed from everything. As far as anyone was concerned, Anthony had not spent any time at the hotel. He'd flown in for a meeting, had dinner, and left immediately after.

Yes, that was it. Tasmin had driven away from the hotel and that was the last anybody had seen of her.

Fortunately, Renee had surrounded herself with employees she could trust—that is, as long as they were well compensated.

By the time she'd taken care of everything, she was worn out and still very angry.

Susie was half asleep when she finally got back to their house.

“Where have you been?” Susie asked, removing her powder-pink sleep mask. “Anthony calls and you go running. What did he
want
? That man is so classless and dumb, it's beyond me why we have to entertain him every time he comes to town. Isn't it enough that he takes money from us every month?”

“Don't ever let him hear you call him dumb,” Renee said, shrugging off her jacket. “You should know better than that.”

“For God's sake,” Susie complained, pouting. “We don't
need
someone like him in our lives. I hated dinner, I hated that you acted as his pimp. Surely he can find his own girls?”

“Listen, Susie,” Renee said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, her face grim. “Something bad happened. I can't tell you what it is because I don't want you involved, but I
can
tell you that we won't be seeing Tasmin again.”

“Why?” Susie said tartly. “Has she run off with Anthony?”

“Please—no questions,” Renee said wearily. “And if the police come around asking anything, all you know is that we had dinner with Anthony, he was
not
staying here, and Tasmin was not his date. That's it. Nothing more.”

“What
is
going on?” Susie asked, sitting up in bed.

“Tasmin was dining with us,” Renee continued. “Anthony just happened to join us. It's important. Do you understand?”

“No, I don't,” Susie said, looking alarmed.

“I've told you enough,” Renee sighed.

Susie put her hand on her partner's arm. “Renee, whatever it is, it's
you
who mustn't get involved. You have to distance yourself from that horrible man.”

“I already
am
involved,” Renee answered, wearily shaking her head. “There's nothing I can do about it, Susie, so please leave it alone.”

*   *   *

“Hey, kids,” Anthony said, entering his house and greeting his two teenage children.

Fourteen-year-old Eduardo was on his way out. He attempted to push past his father mumbling that he'd see him later.

“Where ya goin'?” Anthony demanded, grabbing his son's arm. “Why ya runnin' out on me?”

“He has basketball practice, Mr. Bonar,” their English nanny announced. “His friend's father is picking him up.”

“Okay, so go,” Anthony said, releasing Eduardo. “Have a ball. Shoot one for me.”

Thirteen-year-old Carolina was sitting cross-legged on the couch watching a dating game on MTV. Next to her perched Dee Dee, her bubble-gum-chewing best friend.

“Anybody need money?” Anthony offered. Oh yes, he knew how to attract his pretty daughter's attention.

Carolina didn't disappoint him. Jumping off the couch, she flung her arms around his neck. “
Please
, Papa,” she cooed. “My credit card is over the limit, and Dee Dee and me want to go to the mall, so we need
plenty
. I have to buy a new outfit for the school dance and lots of other stuff.”

“You girls
always
need money,” Anthony said, smiling expansively at his daughter and her friend. Carolina was blond and cute and in his eyes could do no wrong. She was as pretty as Irma had been when he'd first met her, and that was saying something.

Eduardo was another case, surly and not quite the son Anthony had hoped for. All Eduardo wanted to do was play sports. He wasn't even interested in girls, and he certainly wasn't interested in learning about the family business, which in the long run was probably wise, because Eduardo did not exhibit any sign of the Bonnatti balls.

Fishing in his back pocket, Anthony handed Carolina a fistload of hundred-dollar bills. She grabbed them out of his hands with an excited “
Whoopee!
Thanks, Papa.”

Their English nanny, an older woman with iron gray hair, worn in a no-nonsense bun, and a fierce expression, didn't say a word, although her disapproving look indicated more than words.

Anthony took no notice. Like he gave a shit what some uptight English twat thought.

“Gimme a big kiss, Princess,” he said, hugging his daughter again.

Carolina kissed him full on the lips.

He chuckled, and smacked her lightly on the ass. “No talkin' to boys at the mall. No talkin' to boys period. You're too young. Understand me?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said obediently.

“I mean it,” he said sternly. “I'm the only boy you can talk to. Ain't that so, Princess?”

“I know, Papa,” Carolina said, rolling her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, giving her another brisk pat on the ass. “I'm gonna look in on my grandma. Wanna come with?”

“I saw her yesterday,” Carolina replied, counting out her money while giggling with her friend.