Double Lucky (56 page)

Besides, he had his movie to edit, no time for Ling. Being in the editing room seventeen hours a day was relationship enough.

Upstairs in their suite, he conducted a search for his watch. It was a special gold Patek Philippe watch given to him by Lucky at the end of the movie they'd produced together. Lucky had inscribed on the back,
I'll always remember our time together. Lucky.

It was an ambiguous inscription that could mean anything. He chose to think it meant their one night together long ago. Only realistically he knew it didn't. Because of Lennie. Because Lucky was not a cheater, she was a woman of principle. It was one of the things he loved most about her.

It occurred to him that maybe Ling had hidden the watch somewhere. He wouldn't put it past her—once she'd read the inscription, she'd gotten very uptight, claiming the watch was too flashy for him to wear. Flashy! It was a Patek Philippe, for Christ's sake.

He knew the real reason she hated it. It was a gift from Lucky, and that was enough to set her off.

He was getting more livid by the minute, convinced Ling had stashed it away. Unzipping her suitcase he started rooting around, finding no watch, but coming up with an envelope that he took out and opened. Inside were several Cartier cards, and on each card were written the words
Drop Dead Bitch.
The word
Bitch
looked as if it had been scrawled in blood.

What the hell was
this
all about?

Then he remembered Lucky over lunch in Vegas telling him about the odd notes she'd been receiving.

Jesus
Christ!
Had Ling been sending Lucky hate mail? He couldn't believe it. What kind of psycho was his live-in girlfriend turning out to be?

This was most definitely a reason to get rid of her permanently.

*   *   *

The woman's body buried out in the desert, wrapped in plastic like a shroud, was dug up and taken back to the city where she was immediately identified by her former husband.

Tasmin Garland. Murder victim.

And Detective Franklin had no doubt who did it.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Before Max could run too far, Henry caught up with her, tackling her to the ground, where he pinned her with a steel-like grip on both her arms, his body half over hers.

For a man with a gimpy leg he could sure move fast, and he was surprisingly strong.

“What do you want with me?” she shouted, determined not to give in to this creep again whether he had a gun or not. She was Lucky Santangelo's daughter and she realized she'd better start fighting back.
Girls can do anything
—Lucky had taught her that ever since she could remember. It was time for action.

“Maria,” he crooned, his disgusting breath in her face. “Why are you trying to run away from me when surely you have realized by now that we belong together?”

She lay very still on the damp ground. It was patently obvious he was a total whacko, and how best to get herself out of this situation? She had to think fast.

“What's your name?” she managed. “Your real name.”

“Lord Grant,” he said grandly.

“Lord Grant,” she repeated.

“Yes. And I came here today for
you
, to take
you
to a place where people will leave us alone.”

“What people?”

“Lucky Santangelo,” he said, his voice full of animosity. “That woman is not a fit woman to be your mother, she will do nothing but corrupt you. God has sent
me
to save you, Maria.”

How did God get into this? Was this guy a Jesus freak on top of everything else?

“Do you
know
Lucky?” she asked, trying to move out from under him.

“Yes, I know Lucky,” he said, spitting venom. “Lucky Santangelo ruined my life. However, out of bad comes good, and now I have you.”

She shifted on the ground, thinking that at least she finally knew why he was targeting her. This whacko had some kind of grudge against her mom, and somehow or other she'd been dragged into it.

Where was Ace when she needed him?

*   *   *

Before the lingerie show started, Renee excused herself from Susie and went off to make a phone call. She reached Tucker Bond on the designated number he'd given her to be used only in emergencies.

“I'm calling it off,” she said.

“You're doin'
what?
”

“Stopping the action.”

There was a long silence. Tucker was used to clients changing their minds, but not at the last moment, not when everything was set up and ready to go.

“Can you do it?” Renee asked.

“I can do anything,” Tucker replied. “S'long as I get paid. In full.”

“I understand,” Renee said. “Our financial arrangement still stands. You'll get your final payment.”

“Oh yes, I will.”

“Then we're agreed? It's off.”

“You're the client.”

*   *   *

Emmanuelle was in her element sitting amongst an audience dotted with famous people. They were all waiting to view the lingerie show, and she was proud to be one of them.

Anthony had shoved his way into front-row seats. He was confident they had plenty of time before anything happened. The destruction of the Keys would not take place until after Venus's concert, when everyone was outside for the fireworks display. How fitting that everything Lucky Santangelo had worked so hard for would go up in smoke.

He'd sent his grandmother back to the Cavendish with The Grill to watch over her. She'd claimed she wasn't feeling well, but he wasn't sure he believed her. She was putting it on because she was pissed at him for dragging her away from Gino Santangelo. To make him feel bad she'd begun muttering about heart palpitations.

“Stay with her,” he'd instructed The Grill. “If you think she needs it, call a doctor. I'll be back soon.”

He hadn't wanted to miss out on humiliating his wife even further. How galling it must be for her having to walk around with him and his sexy mistress. How mortifying and degrading and fuck the cunt! He didn't care. It was over between him and Irma. Tomorrow she'd be history, and if Emmanuelle kept on talking to other men, she'd be history too.

*   *   *

“We're going in the wrong direction,” Ace said. “The spa isn't this way.”

“I'm sure it is,” Cookie argued. “I passed it earlier.”

“No!” he said urgently. “It's at the
back
of the hotel. Come on, move it.”

“Uh … if this freak had a gun last time, don't you think we should maybe like call security?” Cookie ventured, trying to keep up with him.

“Good thinking,” he said, realizing she was scared. “You go inside the hotel and alert security, I'll find Max. And hurry up.”

*   *   *

Lucky had no idea who to look for. Gino had said Francesca Bonnatti and her grandson were trouble, but where the hell were they?

Hundreds of people were at the lingerie show. How was she supposed to pick them out?

Her eyes scanned the rows of guests, but she couldn't spot an old woman dressed all in black. On the contrary, everyone seemed to be young and beautiful. Such a glamorous turnout!

She spotted Renee Falcon and Susie.

“Hi,” she said, going over to them. “I'm so glad you could make it.”

“We wouldn't dream of missing out,” Susie said. “Only I'm putting a blindfold on this one during the show.”

“
Puleaze!
” Renee said, feeling delightfully relaxed.

For once she'd done the right thing, and it was a good feeling.

*   *   *

Ling was sitting in a front-row seat alongside the catwalk. Alex made it back just before the lingerie show started.

“What took you so long?” Ling asked as a couple of hovering photographers spotted Alex and to his annoyance began snapping his picture.

“I was catching up on some reading,” he said, sliding into his seat. “Interesting stuff, take a look.” He dove into his jacket pocket and passed Ling one of the Cartier cards.

Her face remained impassive as she glanced at it. “Have you been going through my things?” she asked in an accusatory tone.

“I was searching for my watch, and look what I came up with,” he said. “Care to comment?”

“Going through someone else's belongings is low,” Ling said, refusing to address the issue of the Cartier card with
Drop Dead Bitch
scrawled on it. “I would never go through your things.”

“Have you been sending these cards to Lucky?” Alex demanded. “Have you been
threatening
her?”

“Shush,” Ling said, “the show is starting.”

And indeed it was, as a parade of models, each one more statuesque and gorgeous than the last one, began stalking down the runway wearing nothing much at all except a plethora of hair extensions, five-inch heels, and “I am so much better than you” disdainful expressions.

*   *   *

“You've got to let me stand up, I promise I won't run,” Max said, determined that this time there was no way she was becoming a victim.

“It doesn't make any difference,” Henry replied. “Because wherever you run to I will find you. We are destined to be together, Maria, and I will make you very happy and content. I wish you would believe me.”

“Yeah, I get it,” she said as he moved off her, allowing her to stand up. This creep was definitely psycho city. Nutty as a loon. “So … uh … the reason you think we should be together is because of my mom—something she did to you—right?”

“Lucky Santangelo took my chance of stardom and handed it to Billy Melina,” Henry said, spewing his anger and frustration. “But it doesn't matter now, because God works in a mysterious fashion, and because of what Lucky did to me, it has brought
us
together, and that is a magical and wonderful thing.”

“Oh sure, wonderful,” she muttered sarcastically, brushing off her clothes. “Especially when you've got to throw me on the ground to tell me this.”

“I hope I didn't hurt you,” he said with a solicitous expression. “I had no intention of doing so.”

“I'm okay,” she answered, wondering if it was wise to make another run for it. Did he have his gun with him? That was the question. He was lunatic enough to shoot her in the back if she tried to escape again, so instead she decided to humor him. “Uh … what's your plan this time?” she asked. “We're not going to that gross cabin of yours, are we?”

“My mother recently passed on,” he said, not sounding at all upset. “Unfortunate for her. Fortunate for us.”

As he spoke, Max spotted Ace stealthily approaching from behind where the freak couldn't see him.

Oh, wow! Ace never disappointed.

Taking a deep breath she kept him talking. “Why is it fortunate for us?” she asked, feigning interest.

“Because I am an extremely affluent man,” Henry informed her. “I inherited everything, and now I have more than enough money for us to go anywhere and do anything we wish. Nobody can stop us,” he boasted. “Not even Lucky Santangelo. This time
I
am in control.”

“That's incredible,” she said, her heart pounding as she watched Ace edging closer by the second. “Tell me more.”

“Oh, I will. I have so much more to tell you, Maria. I—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Ace pounced, knocking him to the ground.

Henry let out a primal scream of pure fury, rolled over, and sprang to his feet. Whereupon he and Ace became embroiled in a fight while Max raced to get help.

This time she wasn't letting him get away with it.

Oh no, she was a Santangelo—this time she was going to nail his ass.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

Irma sat extremely still, her hands clasped on her lap. She was on one side of Anthony, Emmanuelle on the other.

The Grill was back at the other hotel with Francesca and Anthony was busy ogling the models.

What could he do to her if she got up and walked out? He couldn't cause a scene, the place was too packed. He couldn't stop her. In fact, there was nothing he could do.

Yes, exactly nothing, except have her parents murdered and their home burned to the ground, and after he'd arranged that, come after her with a vengeance.

She was trapped with this despicable man, unless Oliver came through for her. She'd spoken to him briefly, managed to tell him what she'd witnessed regarding Luis, and he'd promised to get in touch with the police in Mexico City to see if they could track anything.

She'd told him where she was and then offered him information in return for her rescue, but before he could reply, the battery on the cell had given out. Then she'd heard Anthony yelling for her outside the ladies' room, and she'd quickly handed the phone back to the woman she'd borrowed it from and hurried outside.

Now she was being forced to watch a lingerie show with her psychotic husband and his tramp mistress.

*   *   *

The models paraded down the runway, strutting their goods, twirling and turning in the briefest of teddies and sexy little numbers, the music blaring. Every man in the place was mesmerized—every man except Alex, who couldn't give a rat's ass about a parade of half-naked models. He was more interested in finding out what Ling had in mind sending Lucky a series of sick notes. How
dare
she.

“Give me your purse,” he said, trying to jerk it away from her. “I want to see how many of these pathetic notes you've got hidden away.”

“No!” Ling responded, making him all the more anxious to take a look. “I will not.”

“Oh, yes you will.”

“Stop bullying me, Alex.”

“When you start telling me what the hell you hoped to achieve.”