Goddess of Vengeance (22 page)

‘Sure, hon—’ Fantasy began to say. Then she got a glimpse of his hard, cold stare, and hurriedly shut up.

Tia, a petite girl, was already divesting herself of her clothes. A simple silk dress, red thong – and that was it. She kept her strappy high-heeled sandals on as requested. Armand’s eyes flicked over her nakedness. Too thin for his liking, and her jutting breasts were obviously fake and oversized for her body. He reminded himself to request women with real breasts in the future.

Fantasy, on the other hand, was the kind of nasty bitch he enjoyed humiliating. She would fight back when he instructed her to do certain things. She would entertain him.

As Fantasy stripped off her clothes, a short skirt and low-cut top, no underwear, he couldn’t help admiring her body. Gleaming ebony skin, long legs, a pierced navel and one pierced nipple. Normally he would watch and instruct; touching hookers was not always for him, he was far too fastidious. But for this one he might make an exception.

‘On the pool table,’ he commanded.

The girls obliged.

‘Now get on all fours and play doggie.’

‘’Scuse me?’ Fantasy said.

‘Do you have a problem with your hearing?’ Armand said. ‘Lick each other’s asses and try to look as if you’re enjoying it.’

‘Fucking perv,’ Fantasy whispered under her breath. But she did as he asked, because like all professionals, the money was waiting at the end of the gig, so did it really matter how she got there?

*   *   *

Two hours later Armand was picking up his mother. Meanwhile Fantasy was waiting for her car, and bitching to her friend, a valet parker at The Keys, about the kinky customer in the Presidential Suite, a man who’d demanded all kinds of lewd acts
and
anal sex from her and Tia, then refused to pay extra.

‘Cheap mothafucker,’ Fantasy muttered as she got in her car. ‘Who the fuck he think he is?’

Soon word started filtering up via the staff grapevine about the perverted cheapo in the Presidential Suite. It didn’t take long before the gossip reached the ears of Jerrod.

Call girls were not encouraged at The Keys, but since high-end call girls were a fact of life in Vegas, their existence was tolerated. However, Jerrod had certain standards, and if they came to do a job at the hotel where
he
was the Head of Security, then they should be paid for their services.

Jerrod decided to do some discreet investigating.

*   *   *

Armand chose to take Peggy, along with Fouad, to François, a restaurant he knew she’d approve of. Select and expensive, he needed to make Peggy happy and preferably drunk, for his dear mother was very fond of a bottle of wine. Give her enough, drop her off at her hotel, and she’d sleep it off.

How many times had he watched her do that when he was a kid? Too many to count. His mother, the drunk. Thank God for Sidney Dunn, who’d come along, married her, and taken the pressure off.

Now Sidney was gone, and did she honestly expect to latch onto him again?

Earlier he’d enjoyed himself with the whores, especially the black one. Women would do anything for money, he’d established that time and time again, and he had the videos to prove it. Two little whores at play. Another shining example to add to his extensive collection.

He stored his video discs labelled under certain categories:

Married Women
Whores
Single Women
Famous Women

Yes, he’d had a few famous women sniffing around all set to land their own personal billionaire – a pairing they imagined would up their pathetic profiles in the tawdry entertainment magazines.

The blonde with the penchant for jocks.

The anorexic brunette who swore she wasn’t anorexic.

The girl who’d written about her life as a Hollywood Princess.

The stupid blonde with the big boobs.

The drugged-out singing star with a major crack problem.

All one-nighters – his choice, not theirs. There wasn’t one of them that he’d care to conduct a repeat performance with.

The restaurant was full. His casino host had arranged the reservation.

Later he would gamble before being entertained by the three Texan blondes he’d ordered up for his midnight entertainment, for when it came to sex, Armand was a true voyeur, a connoisseur of the raw and raunchy.

‘I do not like this table,’ Peggy complained in a high voice. ‘Why are we not seated at a window table? I would prefer to sit somewhere with a view.’

Armand dispatched Fouad to deal with the situation. The restaurant was full, but a five-hundred-dollar tip to the maître d’ should certainly make the right table available.

After a few minutes a group at a well-situated window table got up to leave.

The maître d’ had probably told them to get the hell out, Armand thought, satisfied that money could get him anything he required.

‘You see?’ he informed his mother, with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ‘Your wish, and it is done.’

But Peggy wasn’t listening; her attention was fixed on the group who were making their way out.

‘What are you staring at?’ Armand demanded.

‘That old man,’ Peggy said, quite agitated. ‘I think I know him. Find out his name.’

Armand couldn’t help himself. ‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped, curling his lip. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

Peggy honoured him with an icy stare. ‘Too much trouble?’

Frowning, Armand turned to Fouad. ‘Do as she asks.’

It was at that exact moment Fouad decided the time had come to move on and extract himself from the toxic environment that Armand created. He had money, plenty of it. He had copies of most of Armand’s explicit sex tapes. And he’d had it being treated like some kind of lackey supposed to jump at his master’s bidding.

This was not Akramshar, this was America, and as soon as they returned to New York, he was out.

‘Certainly, Armand,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘I will deal with it immediately.’

*   *   *

The three blondes suited Armand just fine. Lithe and lovely with real breasts and mounds of pale pubic hair, they were exactly what he needed after a stupefyingly boring dinner with his mother. Peggy always put him on edge. She was the gift that kept on giving. Lately she’d started lecturing him about getting married and having children. Little did she know . . .

Exhibiting a rare flash of generosity, he’d invited Fouad to join him and the women. It infuriated him when Fouad declined. How stupid that Fouad remained faithful to his dreary American wife. What a fool.

The blondes did everything he asked. They fucked and sucked, did not object when he ordered them to stick old-fashioned Coke bottles up their asses, licked each other, and complied with everything he requested.

Fully sated from the two skanks he’d entertained earlier, he mainly watched, snorted a mountain of coke and issued instructions.

When he was finally ready, he had all three of them take turns going down on him. Then he dismissed them, sending them on their way, never realizing that one of them was a transsexual. If he’d known that, it would have sent him into a royal fury.

After the women were gone, he slept the night through, once again content with the knowledge that tomorrow The Keys would be all his.

Chapter Twenty-Three

F
riday morning Denver awoke early. She turned her head and there was Bobby sprawled out next to her, lying on his stomach, his lean back exposed. She ran her fingers lightly down his spine, but he didn’t stir. For a few seconds she reverted to her teenage years, remembering how she’d crushed on Bobby from afar. Now he was in
her
apartment, in
her
bed, and he was all hers.

Their late-night sex session had been something else. So passionate and emotional in its intensity. The connection they had was unbelievably strong, and it wasn’t just the sex, it was more than that. It was love and like, with a healthy dose of respect. She only hoped he felt the same way about her.

She jumped out of bed, grabbed a loose T-shirt, went into the kitchen and put on the coffee. Personally she preferred green tea, but Bobby was a coffee freak – he had to have it strong and black before he was ready to face the day.

Today they were flying to Vegas, apparently on the Stanislopoulos plane.

Denver sighed as she filled the coffee pot. Sometimes she found it odd that Bobby never spoke of his deceased father, nor of the huge fortune he’d inherited. She knew he didn’t want to touch the money, that it was important for him to make it on his own. She also knew he’d set certain goals for himself, and that he was intent on achieving them.

So why use the plane? It didn’t seem to fit into his overall plan.

One day she’d ask him, but not today.

A few moments later Bobby strolled into the kitchen wearing the white terry-cloth robe she’d bought him when he’d first started staying over. He looked so sexy and macho in it with his black curly hair and deep olive skin. Man, he was so damn handsome, he gave her goose bumps.

‘Morning, beautiful,’ he said, grabbing her around the waist.

‘Morning, handsome,’ she responded. ‘I was just about to bring you coffee in bed.’

‘Forget about the coffee, how about bringing me
you
in bed,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her back toward the bedroom.

‘You’re insatiable,’ she said with a dreamy smile, allowing herself to go with him.

‘And
you’re
irresistible,’ he replied, tumbling her onto the bed and starting to make love to her again.

His touch was too good to resist. Firm yet gentle. Warm and encompassing. Hard and this time – fast.

Fact of life. She couldn’t get enough of him.

After making out they headed for the shower together, which led to even more making out, while Amy Winehouse stood by the glass door attempting to force her way into the shower and under the streaming water. Eventually she was successful.

Giggling, they finally emerged, along with a soaking wet Amy, who, after shaking her fur all over both of them, proceeded to race around the room like a dog possessed.

‘Time to get dressed ’cause it’s wheels up at noon,’ Bobby said, reaching for his pants. ‘Oh yeah, and I forgot to tell you – little sis is comin’ on the plane.’

‘She is?’ Denver questioned, not thrilled at the prospect as she quickly dressed.

‘No avoiding it,’ Bobby said, buttoning up his shirt. ‘Besides, you like Max, don’t you?’

‘Actually I hardly know her,’ Denver said, opening up her closet and throwing some things into an overnight bag.

‘Well, to know Max is to love her,’ Bobby said. ‘She’s a wild one.’

‘Hmm,’ Denver said, wondering if the party would be dressy, and should she take her one and only Diane von Furstenberg cocktail dress. What was she thinking, of course she should. It was Vegas and the Santangelo/Golden clan. Whoopee!

‘What’s with the hmm?’ Bobby said, his hair still damp and curling over the collar of his shirt.

‘Well,’ Denver said tentatively, ‘I’ve only met Max a couple of times and she wasn’t exactly talkative.’

‘Max can be shy. Don’t forget, she’s only a kid.’

‘Really?’ Denver said, loath to point out that Max had gone out of her way to practically ignore her. And about to hit eighteen was hardly a kid. But maybe Max would lighten up now that she and Bobby had been together a while.

Maybe
being the operative word.

*   *   *

‘Why’s your mom’s Ferrari all over the internet with like Billy Melina behind the wheel?’ Cookie demanded over the phone.

‘Huh?’ Max said, a sudden chill coursing through her body. ‘What’re you
talking
about?’

‘Check it out, girl,’ Cookie said, unaware of the panic she was causing. ‘Do you think Lucky
lent
it to him? And why’d she’d do that with his divorce deal goin’ on? Isn’t Venus like her BFF?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Max said, already racing to her laptop and checking out the gossip sites. And there it was, a video of Billy climbing out of Lucky’s distinctive customized red Ferrari at a gas station in Pacific Palisades.

He’d stopped for gas! Why would he
do
that?!

And if that wasn’t enough, there were numerous photos of him getting pulled over by a traffic cop!

‘Seems strange t’me,’ Cookie continued. ‘Maybe I’ll ask Lucky what’s up.’

‘No!’ Max said, totally panicking. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause, uh, maybe she doesn’t want Venus to know.’

‘Ohhh . . .’ Cookie squealed. ‘D’you think she’s hookin’ up with Billy? It’s always the best friend you gotta look out for. Wouldn’t
that
be something.’

‘You are
so
gross.’

‘What’s gross about it? Billy Melina is a total stud muffin.
I’d
do him in a flash.’

I bet you would
, Max thought, totally mortified that Cookie was even thinking about Billy in such a fashion.

‘Anyway,’ Cookie continued, ‘didja know Frankie brought Billy to the party? We think he left with Willow Price. Frankie says she’s a raving lesbo. Only
I
think she and Billy are totally doin’ it. I got to meet both of ’em.’