Double Lucky (5 page)

“What?” Harry said, his face reddening.

“Don't go getting all prudish on me,” Max said, giggling as she reached for a tube of suntan cream. “I gotta do it
sometime
, and Grant's the perfect victim.”

“He is?” Cookie asked. “How's that?”

“Well,” Max said, “he's like an out-of-towner who can't go around blabbing about me. Oh yeah, an' he's older, so he'll be like an
expert
at it.”

“You
go
for it, girl,” Cookie said, making a victory sign. “Only try not to get slashed along the way.”

“Oh, so now he's a
slasher
,” Max drawled, reaching for a bobby pin and piling her hair on top of her head. “Anyone ever mention that your imagination
sucks?
”

“Could be he's straight out of a Wes Craven horrorfest,” Harry said, making a spooky face. “Girl alone with strange dude equals she'll like
definitely
get her throat slit.”

“It's so
encouraging
to have friends like you two losers,” Max said, jumping up and making a running dive into the pool.

She didn't care what anyone said—she was going to Big Bear. No doubt about it.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

For some time Irma Bonar had been thinking about taking a lover. At thirty-two, she'd finally decided to do something about her empty life stuck outside Mexico City in an enormous villa surrounded by servants and bodyguards. This was the place her husband, Anthony, had decided she should live, while
he
traveled anywhere he wanted doing God knew what.

Anthony Bonar was a difficult man. Difficult, arrogant, and most of all controlling.

The fact that he no longer wished to have sex with her did not please Irma at all. Over the years she'd gotten used to her husband's ferocious style of lovemaking, and now she could not understand why their once-active sex life had ground to a sudden halt.

Whenever she mentioned it to him, Anthony always managed to come up with a variety of reasons. Reason number one: he had a lesion on his penis and he wasn't sure what it was.

Irma had carefully inspected his limp manhood and found nothing.

“It's there,” Anthony had insisted, “an' if you don't wanna catch nothin', you'd better listen t'me for once.”

This frightened her off for a while, until one night he'd shoved his supposedly damaged cock into her mouth for a late-night blow job because he'd had a fight with one of his mistresses and the
puttana
had sent him home horny.

After that incident the lesion excuse didn't work anymore, so he'd announced that his doctor had warned him that his testosterone level was dangerously low, and that he had to lay off sex for a while.

Gradually Irma had grown to understand that her dear husband did not wish to have sex with her, and galling as she found it, she was forced to settle for the occasional jump in the dark when
he
felt like it, usually late at night or early in the morning when she was half asleep. Anthony always made sure to pull out before coming. He had no desire to make more babies—two was definitely enough.

Irma did exactly as Anthony expected of her. She concentrated on their children, making sure Carolina and Eduardo received the best of everything. She also absorbed herself in decorating their various homes, although once each place was finished, Anthony sent her back to Mexico, where he insisted she live. Anthony professed to love their home.
If he loves it so much,
Irma often thought,
why doesn't he live here permanently?
He came and went whenever it suited him, while she was stuck there with no friends and no one to talk to.

Anthony did not encourage her to make friends, although
he
certainly entertained an adoring entourage when he deigned to spend time at home. There were several couples he invited over when he was there. One of the women was American, but Anthony had warned Irma not to have any contact with the woman when he wasn't around.

“Why not?” she'd wanted to know.

“'Cause I don't want nobody findin' out nothin' 'bout my business,” he'd said. “You'd better keep to yourself, Irma. That's an order.”

When the children were old enough, Anthony had decided that they should continue their education in America. This delighted Irma, because she was desperate to move back to the States.

“
You're
not comin',” Anthony had said, brooking no argument. “You'll stay in Mexico—it's our main home, it's where you should be.”

“No,” Irma had protested. “Where I
should
be is with our children. They're still young, they need me.”

“Forget it,” Anthony had answered harshly. “The kids are growin' up. I'm hirin' a housekeeper to take care of 'em, make sure they do their homework an' eat properly. Oh yeah, an' Francesca will be around. They'll come to you for vacations.”

Irma was livid. Anthony's witch of a grandma got to live in America while
she
had to stay in Mexico. It wasn't fair. But she knew better than to argue. Anthony had a fierce temper, and early on she'd learned that the wise way was to shy away from his uncontrollable wrath.

Anthony Bonar was not only difficult and controlling, he was a screamer of mammoth proportions. Loud, frequent outbursts were not unusual; he even screamed at his grandmother when the mood took him. The old woman screamed back, giving as good as she got. In a twisted way they both seemed to enjoy their verbal battles.

Irma didn't. She had never gotten used to their upsetting dance over the years.

Once the screaming stopped there were profuse apologies and overly affectionate
I love you
s from both of them.

Irma thought the interaction between the two of them was sick, but she never interfered for fear of repercussions. Irma had learned over the years that it was best to keep quiet.

*   *   *

Sometimes Anthony Bonar thought that if it wasn't for his children he would divorce Irma and marry his outstandingly sexy mistress, Emmanuelle. She was so hot that sometimes he couldn't believe she was his. Twenty years old with a body any red-blooded male would kill for, she was one of the most sought-after models in Miami. Not one of those snooty bitches who strutted the runways, no, Emmanuelle was featured on the covers of
Stuff
and
Maxim
—a popular cover girl with her sexy blond curls and the best fake tits this side of Rio, the city where she was born.

Anthony had met her in a club six months earlier. She'd been snorting coke with a hard-living male movie star who swung both ways. Anthony had taken one look at her and proceeded to move in big-time. Within weeks he'd set her up in an apartment, bought her a new Mercedes, showered her with jewelry and designer clothes.

Anthony got off on collecting beautiful, sexy women, and Emmanuelle was a prize. But as much as he reveled in his power over females, business always came first. Business, followed by his two children, then his grandmother, and trailing way behind was Irma. Truth was he didn't really like his wife; she was boring and a nag—always on his case about moving back to America. Most women would be thrilled to live in a twenty-five-thousand-square-foot home with servants and bodyguards. But not Irma, oh no, not
his
wife. Irma wanted to be near him so she could bug the shit out of him with her constant demands for sex.

Why did she still expect him to fuck her? He'd given her two children. Wasn't that enough? She was a
mother
, for chrissakes; he didn't fuck mothers.

Besides, he had other things on his mind, and making Grandma happy was a number-one priority.

When he'd told Francesca his plans for finally taking action against the Santangelos, her long, thin face had lit up. “At last you have the balls of your grandfather,” she'd exclaimed. “You make me a very happy woman, Anthony.”

“Whatever I'm doin', it's for you,” he'd said. “'Cause you care so much.”

“No!” she'd said sharply. “Not for me. For the Bonnatti
name
. For the Bonnatti
honor
. Your stupid half-brother couldn't do it. Nor could Donatella. Now it is
your
duty to ruin the Santangelo family once and for all.”

“Hey, it's gonna happen,” he'd promised.

“It better,” she'd answered sharply. “You hear me, Anthony? It better.”

“What? Ya don't believe me?”

“It's taken you long enough.”

“Jesus Christ! I do everythin' for you, an' still you doubt me.”

And so the screaming had started. Always the screaming.

Anthony was used to it. In a strange way it was his only true comfort zone.

*   *   *

Sitting outside under a leafy tree in the garden of their house, Irma watched the two gardeners at work. One was an older man, his lined face grizzled from the sun. The other was a much younger man, with a muscled body and brooding features. Irma stared at him, observing his dark, bushy eyebrows, thick lips, and muscular arms. He reminded her of her first boyfriend way back in Omaha when she was a mere fourteen. Andy Francis, a very possessive boy who'd slugged other boys simply for looking at her.
Well,
she thought with a slight smile,
I was the prettiest girl in school
.

Memories of Andy brought back feelings of her first sexual stirrings. Andy's hard little kisses, his fifteen-year-old tongue stuck firmly in her mouth thrusting and twisting. Andy's eager hands exploring under her sweater, unfastening her bra and clumsily fondling her breasts. Andy's frustration when she refused to allow him to go any further.

Irma found that she couldn't stop staring at the younger of the two gardeners. He was new, she'd only seen him a couple of times before.

Suddenly he glanced up and met her gaze. His eyes were full of suspicion, but he didn't look away, and neither did she.

It was a moment that set her thinking. Was this destined to be the man she had an affair with? This lowly Mexican gardener who probably stank of sweat and wine and would handle her roughly, because in his eyes he surely must see her as a beautiful blond
lonely
American princess.

She experienced a shiver of excitement, followed by a moist feeling between her legs.

Oh God, it had been so long since Anthony had touched her. Right now she was suffused with desire.

She couldn't take her eyes off the man, his rippling muscles, his stoic face. Yes, she had to have him. And why shouldn't she? Anthony thought he was so clever with his secretive ways, but she knew about his mistresses—the Italian whore he kept in a penthouse in New York, and the so-called model in Miami. Besides, he'd taken her children from her, and that wasn't right.

She also knew plenty about his business dealings. The drug shipments, the many meetings, his associates in Colombia and Bolivia whom she'd met.

Damn Anthony. He was forcing her to go elsewhere for the sexual satisfaction she craved.

The old gardener turned and began a slow trudge toward the greenhouse. The young gardener stayed where he was.

Irma couldn't stop watching him. After a few moments she acted on impulse and beckoned him over. He headed in her direction, a wary expression on his face.

What am I doing?
she thought.
This is crazy
. But her heart was beating so fast she couldn't stop herself.

When the gardener arrived in front of her, she lost all sense of reason and found herself incapable of looking him in the eye.

“Señora?”
he questioned. His smell wafted in the air, healthy sweat mixed with garlic.

“Uh … you're new here, aren't you?” she managed, fanning herself with a magazine. “What's your name?”

“
Perdone, señora
,” he mumbled, rubbing his thigh with a large work-worn hand. “
No hablar Engleesh.
”

“You don't?” she said, startled. Then she thought,
Why would he? He's only a gardener, probably dropped out of school early.

She studied his lips. They fascinated her, they were so thick and tempting. Then there was the faint stubble on his chin, so manly. And his forearms, strong and muscled.

“Name,” she repeated, fanning herself more vigorously. “
Nombre?
”

“Luis,” he muttered in a low voice.

“
Gracias
, Luis,” she said, dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

He turned and walked away, giving her ample time to study his tight ass in faded jeans.

Abruptly she stood up and headed for the house. If she couldn't have Luis, perhaps she would settle for the handheld neck massager she'd recently purchased. The small piece of machinery certainly wasn't Luis, but the results were always a ten.

*   *   *

Emmanuelle was a girl who liked to party, but Anthony Bonar soon convinced her that the best parties consisted of two people only—although an occasional other girl introduced into the mix did not seem to bother him. Early on in their relationship he'd threatened to fucking kill her if she ever cheated on him. Those were his exact words, and she was almost convinced that he meant it. Almost, not quite, for Emmanuelle was young and got off on enjoying herself. After all, Anthony was not always around. Early on she'd discovered that he had a wife
and
another mistress in New York, so she'd decided that if
he
was getting it elsewhere, why shouldn't she?

So far she'd only cheated on him once with a fellow model. Nobody found out. They'd done it in a dressing room halfway through a photo session. Hot, fast sex standing up.

Anthony
never
did it standing up. He wanted her flat on her back with her ankles around his neck while he pumped away like a machine. In, out. In, out. No technique whatsoever.