Drop Dead Beautiful (6 page)

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.

She’d soon realized that her new boyfriend was not the greatest lover in the world—although he obviously thought he was. Most men did.

Emmanuelle refused to disillusion him, for she’d met generous men before, but Anthony was in a class by himself and she was partial to luxury goods, especially when they came with a major price tag. This meant that although Anthony Bonar wasn’t her usual type, she played him all the way.

In spite of the blond curls and fake tits, Emmanuelle had a head for business, and she knew she had Anthony hot enough to buy her almost anything she wanted. The downside was that he put nothing in her name—not the Mercedes, not the lease on the apartment he’d set her up in, not even the
jewelry he’d gifted her with. If she ever left him, it all had to come back to him, he informed her. Or else.

Anthony was big with threats. Emmanuelle didn’t like that, but even so she’d decided to stick it out for the time being until she could figure a way to persuade him to start putting things in her name. After all, if he broke up with her, it wasn’t fair that she would walk away with nothing. And since he was enjoying the many and varied pleasures of her fabulous body, not to mention her extraordinary oral expertise, he
should
pay, there was no doubt about it.

Emmanuelle knew she was right.

Chapter 8

“Baby!” Venus murmured, wrapping her well-toned arms around Billy Melina’s neck and kissing him on the lips. “I missed you so much. How’d it go today?”

“Alex Woods is a workaholic freakin’
asshole,”
Billy complained, shrugging off his Chrome Hearts leather jacket and flinging it on Venus’s oversized bed.

“Everyone knows that,” she agreed, kneeling on top of the bed looking sexy in a barely-there black lace teddy. “However, at least he’s a
talented
asshole, which so many of them aren’t.”

Billy was inclined to disagree. It was almost midnight and he was wiped out. He’d had a bitch of a day what with the sex session out by his pool with the girl from Tower Records, then working endless hours on the street faking tough-as-shit choreographed fight scenes. Alex Woods was king of the “Let’s go for another take” school of directors, and it drove Billy nuts. How many times was he supposed to get punched in the head and thrown over the hood of a car? Oh sure, he had a stand-in, but Alex insisted that
he
be front and center for most of the action, and when he objected— even a little bit—Alex berated him in front of the entire crew. “Our
actor
doesn’t want to get down ’n’ dirty,” Alex jeered. “Let’s get a chair for our fucking actor so he can put his fucking feet up. Wouldn’t want to
overwork
him.”

At which point Billy had agreed to shoot the scene himself. No stand-in required.

Man, he felt totally shattered. When they’d wrapped for
the night, all he’d really wanted to do was go home and soak in his hot tub. Instead he’d been obliged to rush over to Venus’s palatial mansion in Beverly Hills, because she’d called him on his cell four times insisting he come by when he was finished, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.