Goddess of Vengeance (30 page)

‘What are you doing?’ Bobby wanted to know, leaning over her shoulder.

‘Just checking on work.’

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘No, what?’

‘Not while we’re on our first vacation.’

‘Bobby,’ she reminded him gently. ‘This is not a vacation, it’s a weekend.’

‘And our first one away together,’ he pointed out, kissing her neck.

‘Okay,’ she said, clicking her phone off. ‘Whatever my Lord and Master wants.’

‘Easy!’ he laughed. ‘I’m not
that
bad.’

‘Well, you
are
being kind of overbearing.’

‘Thought I was being romantic.’

‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll leave work alone until later.’

‘Later I might have more surprises.’

‘Hmm . . . something to look forward to?’

‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’

*   *   *

‘I appeared at the Maracana Stadium in Rio once,’ Venus informed Jorge who was now massaging her feet after their stint in the casino. She’d won twenty-five thousand dollars at blackjack, so she was on a high. ‘Thousands of people, and little old me,’ she reminisced. ‘It was a fantastic night. Very memorable.’

‘Ah . . . Maracana,’ Jorge murmured. He spoke more English than Venus thought, and he understood plenty, but he’d decided it was prudent to pretend he had yet to master English. It was also prudent not to mention that he was ten years old when he and some friends had sneaked into the famous Maracana Stadium and watched her perform. He could still remember the hard-on she’d given him that night.

Growing up in a two-room shack with seven brothers and sisters, no father, and a mother who lived only for Carnival, Jorge had been forced to take care of himself. At the age of ten he’d started stealing from tourists in Rio, and from fourteen on he’d been robbing and fucking them, picking up a smattering of English along the way. The moment he’d stashed away enough money, he’d gotten himself a passport and purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. At least he had ambition.

Now what? He might be only nineteen (Venus thought he was twenty) but he was smart enough to know that being with this platinum-blonde superstar might be his only opportunity to score big.

He didn’t know what, but this weekend he was determined to do
something
to cement their connection.

*   *   *

Determined not to feel sorry for herself, Max entered the elevator which zoomed her upstairs. Harry and Paco had stopped off at the drugstore to pick up God only knew what. Harry was acting totally lovesick, she could hardly stand it.

Betty was sitting in her usual place. Max gave her a quick hug. ‘Is Cookie here yet?’ she asked.

Betty nodded, a disapproving glint in her watchful eyes. ‘Indeed she is. With that new boyfriend of hers.’

‘Oh yes, Frankie,’ Max said, with a knowing grin. ‘Cookie hit the jackpot, right?’

‘Seems too old for her,’ Betty remarked. ‘And smarmy with a smart mouth.’

‘Hey – we all know Cookie,’ Max said, grabbing a handful of M&Ms from Betty’s desk. ‘This is
way
better than her dragging random dudes up here every night.’

‘I have never approved of that girl’s behaviour,’ Betty said, tight-lipped. ‘She needs discipline. Where are her parents?’

‘You
know
where they are, we’ve had this conversation before,’ Max said. ‘By the way – be prepared. Harry has a uh . . . boyfriend too. They’ll be checking in any minute.’

Betty’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A boyfriend?’

‘Oh c’mon, Bets,’ Max giggled. ‘You
know
Harry’s gay.’

‘He is?’ Betty said dryly.

‘Please don’t tease me. It’s almost my birthday and
they’ve
both got boyfriends, while
I’m
all alone. Charming, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Betty assured her, thinking of the boyfriend all set to surprise her. ‘You’ll still have a lovely time.’

‘Thanks, Bets,’ she said, as she headed down the corridor to her suite.

Slipping her entry card into the door she walked inside.

‘Hey,’ Ace said, jumping up to greet her with a big smile on his face. ‘Happy Birthday, sweet eighteen!’

Chapter Thirty-Two

G
etting thrown out of The Keys was without doubt the most insulting thing that had ever happened to Armand – an offensive affront to his dignity. After Fouad had informed him that they were being forced to leave, Armand had refused to believe him. In his mind it was not possible that this could happen. But happen it did, and when four burly security men arrived to escort him off the premises, he finally realized it was for real.

Armand did not go silently. He threatened every staff member in the vicinity with expulsion the moment he owned the hotel. He had Fouad take down names and he let everyone know that they would soon all have no jobs. He radiated a dark cold fury.

Danny, hovering on the sidelines, was startled by the man’s level of lethal anger; he’d never witnessed such frightening rage.

Fouad had a limousine waiting downstairs. Once again he had assumed they would head straight to the airport – he’d even left a message for Peggy that they would be picking her up very shortly.

Armand had other ideas.

‘Do you honestly believe that I would run from here like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs?’ Armand said, enraged. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Are you brain-dead, Fouad? Do you not listen? Are you a complete fool?’

Yes
, Fouad thought,
I am a fool for continuing to put up with your endless verbal abuse. You contaminate everything you touch.

‘Get me the best they have at The Cavendish,’ Armand instructed, ‘and attempt to listen to me for once, Fouad.’ An ominous pause. ‘We are not leaving Las Vegas until I own The Keys. That whore bitch will not win. I will see her die before she gets the better of me. Do you understand me? I WILL SEE HER DIE.’

*   *   *

Many years ago, Peggy had decided that if she did discover who Armand’s real father was, she would never tell her son. Armand considered himself royal-born, and she refused to dispel the myth – if indeed it was a myth. If it turned out that he wasn’t the King’s son, the ramifications would be disastrous. And were the King to find out, who knew
what
he would do? The punishments in Akramshar were harsh, especially toward women. They included the ancient custom of stoning, and long spells in prison for nothing more than disrespecting a male.

Not that Peggy would ever consider going back, not under any circumstances. She’d made her life in America, and that’s exactly where she was staying. Maybe even in Vegas if she met the right man.

For a woman in her sixties – however great she looked – the pickings in New York were lacklustre. Old men with Viagra hard-ons required women in their thirties – and at a pinch, forties. So where did that leave her? In Vegas, with casinos full of rich gamblers who might appreciate an attractive redhead in her prime.

Well . . . maybe a tad past her prime, but so what?

After a leisurely breakfast, she visited the spa, where she allowed herself to be primped and pampered, while she wondered how it was going to be possible to get close enough to Gino Santangelo to obtain a DNA sample. She’d watched enough CSIs on TV to realize discovering paternity was not difficult. A scrap of hair, a cigarette stub – and there were labs advertised on the Internet where you could simply mail in your sample. She’d even found one in Vegas, which – for a price – promised a twenty-four-hour turnaround service.

Peggy was excited. She’d always wondered, and now it might be possible to find out.

‘Have you ever heard of a man called Gino Santangelo?’ she asked the tall brunette who was giving her a facial.

The girl almost choked. ‘Gino Santangelo is one of the most famous characters in Vegas,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘His daughter
built
this hotel. The Santangelos are Vegas royalty.’

‘Shh . . .’ hissed a bleached blonde, who was busy giving Peggy a pedicure. ‘His wife’s over there getting her nails done.’

‘His wife?’ Peggy said, her eyes darting across the room. She observed a short woman with a mass of frizzy copper-coloured hair and a compact body. The woman was well preserved, but Peggy – an expert at such things – decided she was in her late sixties.

Mrs Gino Santangelo. Perhaps this was the opportunity Peggy had been looking for.

Yes, an opportunity to get closer to the truth, and she was about to take it.

*   *   *

Settled into a private and secluded luxury villa at The Cavendish, Armand continued to rant and rave about how sickened and angry he was at the outcome of his meeting with Lucky Santangelo. That a woman could get away with speaking to him in such a crude and vile way was unthinkable. His skin crawled at the thought. Her words reverberated in his head and filled him with even more hate.

‘In my country she would be stoned to death for her disrespect,’ he screamed, pacing up and down. ‘I am a Prince. You hear me, Fouad? A royal man. She is nothing but a whore peasant, and she
must
be punished!’

Fouad stared at Armand, and realized that he was no longer a man in control; it seemed he had lost any sense of reality. Had Armand honestly believed that just like that he could fly into Vegas and purchase a property such as The Keys? Was he becoming so convinced of his own importance and power that he’d thought it was possible?

Ever since the incident with Martin Constantine’s wife, Fouad had sensed that there was something basically wrong with Armand. He appeared to be unravelling, caught up in a fantasy power trip of huge proportions. Now he was proclaiming himself a Prince – which of course he was – but his title meant nothing in America.

‘You do know,’ Armand shouted, fixing Fouad with a manic glare, ‘that one day I will rule Akramshar.
I
will be King.’

‘I thought your plan was to stay in America,’ Fouad said, quite shocked by Armand’s announcement.

‘My father will expect me to take over,’ Armand said, a feverish look in his eyes. ‘Do you think I would disappoint him? Because if you think that, you’re an idiot, a
useless
idiot.’ A slow beat before Armand added, ‘Lately, Fouad, I have been thinking I should rid myself of your useless existence.’

Once again Fouad was shocked. He’d grown up in Akramshar, the son of a palace guard, and he’d heard these slurs many times coming from the King. The word ‘useless’ was one of the King’s favourite insults; he used it on wives, workers, his children – anyone he felt deserved the wrath of his tongue. He spat it out like a snake’s venom, making it sound worse than any expletive.

Was Armand turning into his father?

Was he suffering from delusions of grandeur?

Did he honestly believe that when King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan died he could become ruler of Akramshar?

Impossible. The King’s other sons would never allow that to happen. Armand might have been born in Akramshar and lived there for all of eight years, but he had left the land of his birth and become a high-powered American business tycoon. He would never be accepted back. Fouad happened to know that the only reason the King paid Armand so much attention, was that through Armand’s various holdings and companies, he was able to filter money for the King, legitimize it. In America they called it laundering.

‘Get me everything you know about Lucky Santangelo,’ Armand suddenly ordered. ‘That file you had. Where is it? Give it to me at once.’

‘Do you mean the file you refused to pay attention to?’ Fouad said, unable to resist a small dig.

‘I want it
now
,’ Armand said brusquely. ‘Immediately.’

‘I will have it sent up.’

‘Disrespectful whore,’ Armand muttered. ‘She will pay dearly for daring to challenge me.’

Fouad couldn’t quite figure out how Armand had reached the conclusion that Lucky Santangelo had challenged him. She’d merely turned down his offer to buy The Keys. That was it. But obviously she’d triggered something in Armand that had set him on a revengeful path.

‘I should go,’ Fouad said evenly. ‘You need time alone.’

‘No. What I
need
is a couple of whores while I think about what to do,’ Armand raged, his face dark with anger. ‘Arrange it. I want them here immediately.’

Was this what things had come to – ordering up prostitutes for Armand’s perverse pleasure?

No. Enough was enough. Once again he refused to do it.

Moving over to the desk, he picked up a hotel notepad and wrote down a number.

‘Here,’ he said, handing the notepad to Armand. ‘It’s best if you call yourself.’

And before Armand could object, he made a swift exit.

Fouad is a pathetic excuse for a man
, Armand thought.
Why do I continue to put up with his inadequacies, his American wife and his stupid children?

Not that he’d ever met Fouad’s children; truth was, he’d only encountered the wife on two occasions. A blonde from Tennessee, she was boring and bland and not even that pretty. She’d ruined Fouad, turned him into a sheep incapable of functioning properly in the world of business.
That’s
why the meeting to buy The Keys had failed. Fouad’s wife had cut off his balls, rendering him weak and ineffectual. Lucky Santangelo had sensed weakness and used it against him. Conniving whore.