Drop Dead Beautiful (3 page)

“Yeah, sure,” she would reply. “I
dare
them to.”

At which point Lennie would shake his head. In his eyes there was no taming Lucky Santangelo. She walked her own path, and that’s exactly the way he liked her.

Chapter 2

Movie star Billy Melina was over six feet tall, tanned, with shaggy, bleached-by-the-sun hair, and a body straight out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. At twenty-eight Billy was in spectacular shape, with sharply defined abs that rippled as the star-struck young girl kneeling in front of him bobbed her head up and down, servicing him with sticky lips and a busy tongue.

“Suck it!” Billy commanded, pressing his hands down on top of her head. “Suck it, suck it
hard!”

She was doing the best she could. What more did he expect?

“Aarghh …” He let out a long, agonized groan. “That’s it, sweet thing, that’s
it!
I’m coming … I’m coming.”

The girl attempted to pull away.

“No! No!” Billy yelled, pressing down even harder on the back of her head. “
Swallow
it, suck it all
down.”
He groaned again, then mumbled, “Go, baby. Go. That’s it!
Yeeeah!”

For a moment there was silence while the girl tried to decide if it was now okay to release his massive dick from the confines of her mouth.

He decided for her, pulling away with a sudden jerk, immediately stuffing himself back into his tight white Calvins and pulling up his jeans.

They were standing next to the pool in Billy’s Hollywood Hills house—a house that the Realtor had assured him had once been rented by Charlie Sheen. A house that had cost
him three million dollars, and who the fuck had ever thought he would be able to afford to buy such a house?

Certainly not his old man, Ed, who’d laughed in his face when Billy had informed him, eight years ago, that he was off to Hollywood to become a famous actor. Certainly not his alcoholic stepmother, Millie, whose parting words had been, “Good riddance, Billy boy. Doncha bother comin’ back anytime soon.”

He’d shown them, hadn’t he? Oh yeah, he’d certainly shown them. He was Billy Melina. Hot-shot twenty-something movie star. Yeah—a freakin’
movie star
. He was on a very exclusive list of young actors who had the clout to open a movie. DiCaprio, Depp, Pitt—although Brad wasn’t so young anymore. And then there was Billy Melina.

Yeah!
Get off on
that
, old Ed and Millie pissface.

The girl, clad in denim cut-offs and a skimpy yellow tank, got off her knees and stood up. “Was that okay?” she asked matter-of-factly, as if she’d just served him an omelette.

“Sweet,” he replied, wondering how fast he could get rid of her.

Earlier in the day he’d picked her up at Tower Records on Sunset. When the girl had spotted him, she’d sidled over and requested his autograph. He’d noticed her nipples, pushing to escape her barely-there tank top. Then he’d noticed her legs, long and tanned. Her face was pretty—nothing special, but he was feeling major horny, and since his call to the set was not until three that afternoon, he’d invited her up to his house for lunch and a fast blow job. Not that he’d actually mentioned that a blow job was part of the deal—but they’d both known what would happen.

Quivering with excitement, she’d jumped in her truck and followed his sleek Maserati up the winding streets to his house, barely keeping up in her beat-up old truck with a broken taillight—a truck similar to the one he’d driven to Hollywood eight years earlier with two hundred bucks in his pocket and no prospects.

“Hey,” he suggested as they stood beside the pool. “How
about I give you an autographed picture so you can tell your friends you met me?”

“That’d be cool,” she said, acting shy—as if his cock hadn’t been in her mouth minutes before.

“Wait here,” he instructed sternly. “I’ll be right back.”

When Billy had first arrived in Hollywood, he’d called women “ma’am,” and been full of respect and good manners. Stardom had gotten him over
that
particular hump, although he still had a chivalrous streak.

He darted into his house through sliding glass doors, feeling ever so slightly guilty on account of the fact that he had a girlfriend—a gorgeous, famous movie star thirteen years his senior—and if she ever found out that he wasn’t exactly Joe-faithful, she’d be well and truly pissed. But hey, a blow job wasn’t cheating—everyone knew that. Jeez— President Clinton had declared it wasn’t sex on national TV. How could anyone argue with
that?

Ramona, his Hispanic housekeeper, was singing to herself in the kitchen, quite oblivious to the goings-on out by the pool. Kev, his assistant/best friend from the old days, was on the loose somewhere, running errands or picking up girls. He’d certainly get off on this one.

Billy rifled through the stuff on the coffee table in his den and located a stack of glossy eight-by-tens mixed up with unopened bills, pornographic fan mail, a half-smoked joint, well-thumbed car magazines, and an empty candy box. He grabbed a pen, hurriedly scrawled his signature on the photo, and raced back outside, eager to get her off the premises.

The young girl had divested herself of her cut-offs and tank, and was swimming bare-assed naked in his pool.

Shit!
What was he supposed to do now?

“Hey,” he said, chewing on his thumbnail.

“Didn’t think you’d mind,” she responded nonchalantly.

Well, I do
, he thought sourly.

“Uh … okay,” he said, still chewing. “But I gotta take off any minute, so you’re gonna hafta haul your hot little ass outta there.”

“How about
you
getting in?” she suggested, becoming
bolder by the minute. “It’s all
warm
an’ wet, you won’t be disappointed.”

She flipped onto her back, floating in his azure pool, her small nipples erect and disturbingly tempting.

He contemplated this juicy prize, there for the taking. She had a flat stomach, a huge bush of wiry pubic hair—which he found quite sexy because shaved pussy was all the rage in Hollywood—and those long, sexy legs.

Familiar stirrings down below, even though only moments before he’d experienced an extremely satisfactory orgasm.

What the hell, he’d nail her in the pool, then hustle her out of there before she knew it.

After all, what Venus didn’t know …

“Where’s Billy?” Alex Woods demanded of Maggie, his personal assistant, a tall woman of Native American descent with long black hair scraped back into a ponytail and strong, almost manly features.

They were standing next to a wooded area several miles outside of L.A. shooting Alex’s current movie,
Kill
, a violent thriller.

Maggie sensed an outburst coming on. She was well aware that as a director Alex Woods was an Oscar-winning genius, and yet as a man he could be a nightmare. When things were not to his liking, everyone had to watch out— including her. She often wondered how his Asian lawyer girlfriend, Ling, put up with him.

“He’s on his way,” she assured him in a calm voice.

“What the fuck is
that
supposed to mean?” Alex snapped, rubbing his hands together. “His call was for three, and it’s now three forty-five.”

“I know,” Maggie said, remaining calm.

“So get in touch with his driver and tell the asshole to put his foot down.”

“Billy refused to use his driver,” Maggie explained. “He insisted on driving himself.”

“What kind of
shit
is that?” Alex screamed, suddenly
losing it. “The insurance forbade it. D’you hear me, Maggie? They
forbade
that he drove himself to any of the locations. You
know
that.”

“Yes, I do,” Maggie responded in a quiet voice, because having worked with Alex for quite a few years, she also knew there was absolutely no point in provoking a screaming match.

“She knows!” Alex yelled, mimicking her. “She fucking
knows
, and yet she does nothing.”

Maggie shrugged.

“Shit!” Alex screamed. “Goddamn actors. They should all go fuckin’ Tom Cruise themselves out of the business.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Wait a few years,” Alex said ominously, “you’ll find out.”

“No panic,” Maggie said, relieved. “Here he comes now.”

An Electra Glide fully restored Harley roared into sight, Billy Melina astride in all his glory, black-leathered up to the eyebrows.

Alex strode toward the young actor as Billy jumped off his bike. “You’re fucking
late!”
he yelled.

“Traffic,” Billy countered, his voice filled with the arrogance of an actor who knows there is no way he can get fired.

“Unprofessional,” Alex growled.

“Not my fault, man,” Billy said, casually removing his helmet.

“Of course not,” Alex drawled sarcastically. “Why would it be
your
fault? Nothing’s your fucking fault, is it?”

Maggie quickly attempted to defuse the situation. “Billy,” she said. “Come with me. They’re waiting for you in the makeup trailer.”

“Hey, Mags,” Billy said, turning on the charm. “You’re lookin’ hot. How’s about you an’ me—”

“Move your punk ass,” Alex interrupted.

“Sure, old man,” Billy said, grinning.

Infuriated, Alex stomped off toward his crew busy setting up across the street. Old man indeed. There was nothing worse than some two-bit actor with a handful of box-office hits who considered himself the second coming of Steve McQueen.

Fuck all actors. And
definitely
fuck Billy Melina.

Alex had seen them come, and he’d seen them go. At fifty-something he was a veteran producer/writer/director who’d been through the Hollywood wars countless times. He knew all the games, all the shenanigans. He’d seen studio heads ousted at a moment’s notice, and a staggering lack of honesty and loyalty. The only studio head Alex had enjoyed working with was Lucky Santangelo when she’d owned and run Panther Studios. They’d had a connection that was more than business, and although Alex had always gone for Asian women, there was something about Lucky that had immediately drawn him in.

Unfortunately, she was married and in love with her husband, although there’d been a moment in time when they
had
gotten together. One crazy, insane night of love and lust when Lennie was gone, and Lucky had thought he was dead. Christ! The memory of that one night in a cheap motel in the middle of nowheresville was always there. It was a night he would never forget.

Lucky had never mentioned their one night together again. He knew that in her mind it was something she preferred to think had not taken place. But it had, and he would always have strong feelings for her. There was nothing he could do about it.

Since that time they’d remained friends, had even produced a very successful movie together, and now he was a major investor in her Vegas hotel project.

Maggie returned from depositing Billy in the makeup trailer.

“Five minutes,” Alex growled. “I want that punk kid on the set in five minutes. You got that, Maggie?”

“Yes, Alex, five minutes.”

“And no more turning up on his fucking Harley. I want his skinny ass in a
car
with a
driver
. It’s in his contract. Make sure he honors it or get on the phone to his agent.”

“Yes, Alex.”

“Okay. Now let’s go make a fuckin’ movie.”

Chapter 3

Anthony Bonar—formerly Anthony Bonnatti—had it all. A well-appointed luxurious villa twenty-five minutes outside of Mexico City, a duplex penthouse in New York, a vacation home in Acapulco on the bay, and a rambling waterfront estate in Miami. He also had an American wife, Irma, to whom he’d been married for fifteen years; two children—a boy and a girl; two mistresses, his own plane, a helicopter, and a lucrative business. When asked—and not many dared—he would inform them that he was in the import/export business, which wasn’t exactly a lie, because running a vast drug empire was exactly that—import from here, export to there.

For the first twelve years of his life Anthony had been raised in Italy by his mother, Mia, a hardworking maid who’d toiled in a beachfront hotel in Naples. The same hotel the Bonnatti family had stayed at on vacation when young Santino Bonnatti was a constantly horny teenager. The same hotel where Santino had knocked twenty-two-year-old Mia up one balmy night while making out with her on the beach under the stars.

After the Bonnatti family checked out and returned to America, Mia had no idea she was pregnant. When she found out, she was unable to summon the courage to get in touch with the family. It wasn’t until twelve years later, when she was diagnosed with cancer and given only a few months to live, that she’d contacted the Bonnattis.

A few weeks later Santino’s formidable mother, Francesca
Bonnatti, flew to Italy to investigate the girl’s story. Upon arrival she’d taken one look at young Anthony with his big brown eyes and cocky attitude and realized that Mia was speaking the truth, for Anthony looked nothing like her son, Santino, nor did he resemble his birth mother, Mia. No, Anthony was the mirror image of Francesca. A male version. He was
definitely
a Bonnatti.

Francesca flew her illegitimate grandson back to the States to live with Enzio and herself.

Anthony flourished. He was an exceptionally smart boy who quickly learned to speak English without an accent. Raised on the streets of Naples for the first twelve years of his life by a mother who barely had time for him, he’d learned how to survive on his wits. His grandfather soon took a shine to his ballsy illegitimate grandson. Before long Enzio began taking Anthony on business trips to Colombia and Mexico City, proudly introducing the boy to all his main contacts.

When Santino, outraged that his father had taken such a liking to his so-called son, moved his family and his own business interests—mainly the distribution of pornographic movies and magazines—to California, Enzio wasn’t bothered, for Santino was certainly not the son he’d hoped for.