The Santangelos (27 page)

It was more than upsetting considering that everything he’d achieved, he’d managed to do without any help from his family. Sure, he was privileged and came from great wealth, but so what? That didn’t mean he was automatically guilty. Things had been going so well, and now this had happened.

He sat in the back of the SUV mulling over how he
should
have dealt with the girl in the red dress. Was there anything he could have done differently?

First off, why the hell had he agreed to drive her to the hotel? Why hadn’t he summoned a member of the waitstaff to do so, or one of the parking attendants?

Oh yeah, deep down he knew why. Because she was hot.

Damn it, he hadn’t planned on making a move, yet she’d acted so persuasive and seductive that he hadn’t been able to resist driving her himself. Bad move.

Even worse, when they’d arrived at the hotel, he’d accompanied her upstairs to her suite. Why had he done that?

Because she’d fed him some pathetic story about being scared—was that why?

Shit! In the back of his mind had he been planning on fucking her?

No! Definitely not.

His inner voice piped up in his head:
You sure about that
?

“We’re here,” Beverly said.

“Where?” Bobby muttered.

“Your hotel. I thought you’d want to take a shower and get something to eat before we go to the airport.”

“I can leave the state?” he asked, surprised.

“The state, not the country. You’re going to have to surrender your passport.”

“Jeez!” he said, caustically. “Just as I was planning on running off to Bora-Bora.”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Beverly drawled.

Bobby gave her a wry smile. “It’s about all I got left right now.”

The SUV pulled up in front of the hotel where he and M.J. were staying. More TV crews and photographers were gathered outside jostling for the best position.

“M.J. and your girlfriend are waiting upstairs,” Beverly said. “Take an hour, then we have to leave for the airport. Lucky has arranged a private plane.”

“Denver’s here?” he said, startled.

“I met her for a minute. She seems like a smart woman,” Beverly said.

“She’s smart, all right,” Bobby said ruefully. “And if I know my girl, she’ll be kicking my ass big-time.”

“Well,” Beverly said, “the two of you will have plenty of opportunity to talk things through because she’s flying back to L.A. with us. M.J. has opted to stay in Chicago to make sure the club is up and running. Negative publicity is never good for a new business.”

Jesus! Not only had he ruined his own life, he’d probably ruined M.J.’s too.

Why was Denver in Chicago? Had she come to berate him? Tell him what a fuckup he was?

She shouldn’t have bothered. He already knew that.

*   *   *

“He’s on his way up,” M.J. said, clicking off his cell phone.

“Okay, then,” Denver said, crossing her arms across her chest. She was not happy. In fact, she’d been furious ever since M.J. had met her at the airport and told her the whole story.

Yes, Bobby had obviously been set up. Only what kind of a moron would put himself in such a vulnerable position in the first place?

Before seeing M.J. she’d grabbed a newspaper at the airport, and on the front page was a photo of Bobby alongside a photo of the murdered woman taken outside of Mood. A beautiful Latin woman in a low-cut dress with swirls of dark hair and flashing eyes. Nadia Sharai G
ó
mez. According to the paper, a high-end call girl.

Great! The woman Bobby had taken to her hotel was a hooker.

Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos. What a fool.

“You okay?” M.J. ventured.

“No, I’m not okay,” she answered sharply. “I’m angry at Bobby for allowing himself to get caught in such a ridiculous situation.”

“C’mon, Denver. He was drugged.”

“Do me a favor and quit with the lame excuses, M.J.,” she said impatiently, waving the newspaper in his face. “Look at this woman and tell me exactly
why
he was taking her to her hotel? Planning on playing chess, was he?”

“She was kinda upset,” M.J. said, grimacing. “I guess Bobby felt sorry for her.”

Denver shot him a withering look. “It’s
me
you’re talking to, so please don’t think I’m buying your inane excuses for Bobby’s behavior. It’s insulting, and I do not need to have my intelligence insulted on top of everything else.”

“Hey,” M.J. said, throwing up his hands. “Don’t go gettin’ all up on me. This is between you an’ Bobby.”

“I know that.”

“Then hand him a break.”

“Why should I?” she demanded. “He was going to cheat on me, and you know it.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Bobby said, walking in.

“Jesus, man!” M.J. exclaimed, giving him a bro hug. “I’m sure glad to see you.”

Denver stood back. She didn’t run to him, although she knew that’s what she probably should do. After all, she was his girlfriend.

Screw it—he’d betrayed her by taking some woman to her hotel and going up to her suite. The woman had gotten murdered and Bobby had gotten himself arrested. What was she supposed to think?

“Hey,” Bobby said, moving toward her. “Didn’t expect to see
you
here, but I’m happy you are.”

He went to embrace her. She backed away.

“I must look like shit,” he said ruefully. “Whyn’t I dive in the shower an’ then we can talk.”

She nodded blankly. He did look like shit, although even with a stubbled chin and his dark hair awry, he was still the most handsome man she’d ever set eyes on. And he was all hers—or was he? Carolyn’s words came back to haunt her.
All men cheat. You really think he doesn’t play around?

Damn it. Bobby wasn’t all men. Or perhaps he was. Why would he be any different?

“Yes,” she said coolly. “You should do that.”

Bobby exchanged a quick look with M.J. as if to say,
What’s up with her? I’m the one that’s been sitting in jail accused of a crime I didn’t commit
.

“Y’know,” M.J. said, “I’m gonna take a walk. Let you two catch up.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Denver said, struggling to stay calm, although all she really wanted to do was to scream at Bobby about how stupid he’d been.

“Yeah,” M.J. said, “I think I do.”

He left quickly, leaving them alone.

For once Denver was at a loss. Here she was with the love of her life, who’d just been released from jail, and all she could think about was the fact that he’d been planning on sleeping with somebody else. A woman who’d picked him up in the club—and with whom he’d gone, quite willingly, to her hotel. A woman who got paid for sex.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t think beyond that. All sense of reason had deserted her.

She wished she’d never gotten on a plane and flown to Chicago. Was she crazy—running out on Leon, leaving her job, and doing it without even checking in with her boss?

Yes. She was certifiable for sure.

“Do you want to talk now, or should I take a shower first?” Bobby asked, wondering why she was so damn cold. Didn’t she understand what he’d gone through? What was wrong with her?

“I’m not sure I want to talk at all,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Huh?”

“You heard.”

“Jesus, Denver, what’s up with you?”

“What’s up with
me
?” she said resentfully. “I think you know.”

“No,” he said, starting to lose it. “Whyn’t you fill me in?”

They faced each other, both with their own agendas. All Bobby wanted was to take a shower—wash the jail experience away—and have his girlfriend show a little love. While all Denver wanted was to get the hell away from him.

“Fill you in, huh?” she said bitterly. “I’ll fill you in, all right.
Why
did you take that woman to her hotel? And why did you go upstairs to her suite? What was
that
about?”

“For fuck’s sake. I’ve been accused of murdering someone, and that’s all you have to say?”

“I’m a prosecuting attorney, Bobby,” she said stiffly. “And if I was handed this case, I’d expect a far better excuse than you being drugged.”

“Are you saying you think I’m guilty?” he demanded.

“Not exactly.”

A cold fury overcame him. What the fuck! She was actually thinking he could’ve done it. Was that how much faith she had in him? He couldn’t believe it.

Wearily, he shook his head. He didn’t need Denver’s crap on top of everything. He didn’t need his girlfriend giving him long accusatory looks.

“You know what,” he said abruptly. “I’m taking a shower. You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Great!” she retaliated. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Gathering up her purse, she stalked from the room, only to regret it the moment she was in the elevator on her way downstairs.

Why hadn’t she let him tell his side of the story?

Why had she acted like a jealous girlfriend?

She’d never considered herself to be the jealous type; she’d always scoffed at girls who were. Now she’d turned into one herself, and it was driving her to act out of character, to abandon the man she loved. She’d flown to Chicago to be by his side, and now she wasn’t.
Damn it!

M.J. caught her in the lobby. “Where’re you goin’?” he asked.

“Back to L.A.,” she snapped. “I have a job to do.”

“Thought you were flyin’ with Bobby.”

“You thought wrong.”

“You’re makin’ a mistake.”

“Really?” she said, shooting him an angry look—for surely he must have been aware that Bobby had left the club to screw that woman? Had M.J. known she was a call girl? Too bad that the woman had gotten herself murdered before Bobby had had a chance to seal the deal.

“Think about it, Denver,” M.J. insisted. “You gotta know that Bobby is innocent.”

“Thanks for the info,” she answered coolly. “Oh, and the truth is, I’m over it, so do me a big favor and tell Bobby good-bye for me.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Cookie, Max’s BFF from high school, texted her, and so did her other best friend, Harry. Even her onetime boyfriend Ace got in touch to tell her how sorry he was to hear about Gino. All her L.A. friends were coming through, although she hadn’t gotten a word from Athena.

After thinking about it for a while, she realized that Athena probably hadn’t heard about Gino’s demise, and if she had, it was likely that she didn’t care. Why would she? Athena had never met Gino. Besides, she was probably too busy being the “It” girl of the moment in Saint-Tropez. Too caught up in partying the night away and having fun.

Still … Max would’ve appreciated hearing from her.

Back at the hotel, she wandered around feeling sad and depressed until finally it came to her that wallowing in grief was not her style. Gino was gone. There was nothing she could do about it.

Once again she thought about how he would want her to handle herself.
Get out there an’ kick some ass,
he’d say.
You’re a Santangelo, kid. Do it!

Lucky had sounded strong on the phone; no tears for
her
mom. Max admired her strength, even if it did at times intimidate her. Lucky had achieved so much in life. How could Max ever hope to compete?

Well … for a start she could make a name for herself. And feeling miserable hanging out in a hotel room all by herself was doing nothing to achieve that.

Making a quick decision, she grabbed her phone and called Lorenzo. “What time’s the dinner tonight?” she asked. “I’ve changed my mind—I’m going.”

*   *   *

Piccolo Ambrosia was a candlelit restaurant filled with flowers, soft music, and the aroma of delicious food.

Lorenzo escorted Max inside, where the ma
î
tre d’ led them to a private room in the back of the restaurant. A long wooden table was set for twenty people. Seated around the table were the Dolcezza family, including the twins, plus Carlo and a few other people Max did not recognize. Hanging on the wall at one end of the room was a huge blowup photo of Max taken earlier that day. She stared at it in shock. There she was in her jean shorts and crop top, leaning against the plain background, one leg extended, her green eyes staring into the lens. Above the photo in fancy gold lettering was the caption
DOLCEZZA—THE FACE OF THE FUTURE.

Max swallowed hard as everyone stood up and applauded her. How had this happened so fast? Carlo’s photo was amazing! Was that girl in the photo actually her? Sexy and innocent and fun and freaking
badass
!

“Holy crap!” she mumbled, as Lorenzo steered her to a spot between Alfredo Dolcezza and the dreaded twin, Dante—with his evil eyes and sneery smile.

Alfredo gave her a fatherly pat on the knee. “Is
bella bella, s
ì
?”

“Wow!” she managed. “Do I really look like that?”

“The magic of Photoshop,” Dante said with a disdainful twist of his thin lips, his leg brushing against hers under the table.

“You speak excellent English,” she said, determined not to be intimidated by him. “Where did you learn?”

“America,” he replied. “I attended college in Los Angeles.”

“Really?” she said, trying to look as if she cared. “Where?”

“UCLA. And you, my dear?”

“I decided against college. Not my thing.”

Dante raised an eyebrow, as if to say,
Ignorant girl, education is everything
.

It suddenly came to her that he reminded her of a man she’d met on the Internet who’d lured her out of town, kidnapped her, and locked her up. Fortunately, she’d managed to escape, and although it was several years later, Dante was bringing back all the bad memories.

She searched the table to see where Lorenzo was sitting. He was seated down at the far end with the people she didn’t know. Across from her sat Carlo, and cuddling up next to him was Natalia, clad in a low-cut dress, her droopy boobs on display while she pawed at Carlo’s neck with long scarlet fingernails, obviously marking her territory.

Apparently, after his initial rude remark about Photoshop, Dante had nothing more to say to her. He turned his back and concentrated on the woman sitting to his left. This woman was older and obviously very rich if one was to judge from the large diamonds adorning her ears, neck, and wrists. Dante failed to introduce her, so Max found herself stuck with Alfredo—whose English was sketchy.