The Santangelos (8 page)

Bee Bee leaned over him, smothering his face with her huge breasts. She was a true professional.

Alejandro felt himself coming.

Too soon.

What the fuck. The night was young, and he was just getting started.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The plane ride to L.A. was quick and uneventful. Upon arrival, Lucky bid good-bye to Danny at the airport, picked up her Ferrari, and headed straight to Malibu. Using drivers did not appeal to her. Being behind the wheel of a kick-ass car had always been her thing. Besides, she preferred being in control.

Stopping at Malibu Market, she picked up steaks for Lennie to barbecue, a jar of Texas grilling sauce, and a bottle of tequila. Tonight was to be their night. She’d given the housekeepers a couple of days off, so it would be just her and Lennie. The two of them alone at last.

Thinking about Lennie always brought a smile to her face. He was everything she could ever want in a man. Sexy, wry, charismatic, talented, great in bed, no way a yes-man. In fact, Lennie was the only man who’d ever stood up to her. He was strong and opinionated and they sometimes enjoyed fierce fights. However, the making up was always worth it.

Her thoughts moved on to Venus, and how her friend was possibly ruining her life, not to mention her career. Venus had a habit of becoming the woman she imagined the man she was with expected her to be. During the time she was married to movie star Cooper Turner, she’d glammed it up all the way. Then, while she was married to Billy Melina—who was younger than her—she’d turned into the rock chick of his dreams, riding on the back of his Harley, playing Ping-Pong, going bowling with his rowdy group of friends, even camping because Billy was into it. After her divorce from Billy, she’d sampled a few boy toys, finally settling for Brazilian Jorge. With Jorge, Venus had paid all the bills, while Jorge had lived the life. Then along came Hugo Santos, and Venus had fallen prey to his bullshit
I-can-make-you-into-a-dramatic-actress
spell.

The only consolation was that it wouldn’t last. Venus’s relationships never did.

Lucky sighed. Venus had to be careful; fans had a way of moving on.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, Lennie was already home.

“Here comes my beautiful wife,” he said, greeting her at the door.

“Hey,” she responded. “And I bring food too.”

“I always knew you were perfect.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I always did.”

They entered their Malibu retreat, arms entwined.

*   *   *

Five minutes later, their lovemaking was fast and furious. No foreplay, no tender kisses, simply a raw urgency that took them both by surprise.

Lucky fell into it with a fervent passion. Nothing with Lennie was ever predictable, which is why they had such a great and exciting marriage.

“You leave me breathless,” she sighed when they were both fully satisfied. “Breathless and extraordinarily happy.”

Lennie grinned. He still had an irresistible grin, and an irresistible everything else.

Tracing her fingers across his taut abs, she murmured, “Whatever happened to tantric? You’ve gone all macho on me.”

“Is my lovely wife complaining?”

“Never.”

“Well, y’know I like to keep you guessing.”

“Really?” she said, her fingers tiptoeing downward.

“If I didn’t, you’d be off runnin’ around like you were when I first met you.”

“You remember, huh?” she said with a soft smile.

“How could I ever forget? There I was, this lowly stand-up comedian working the lounge in your hotel—only I didn’t know it was your hotel—and you invited me up to your suite an’ tried to take advantage of me—”

“Oh,
please
,” Lucky interrupted. “If I remember clearly, nobody was taking advantage of anyone. All I wanted was to get laid and you didn’t.”

“C’mon, Lucky,” he said with a lazy grin. “You wouldn’t even give me your name.”

“How sad,” she teased. “No name, no hard-on.”

“Then when I wouldn’t do it, you had me fired.”

“I did?” she said innocently.

“Oh yeah, that was a really classy move. Why’d you do that?”

“Because I could,” she said, her fingers still moving downward.

“Jesus, Lucky, you had balls of fire.”

“I still do.”

“Yeah, and if you ever fucked around on me I’d cut ’em off.”

“Technically speaking, Lennie,
you’re
the one with balls. So exactly who would be doing the cutting?”

“I’m not risking it.”

“You’d better not.”

Her hand reached its destination, and she began slowly caressing him. Naturally, he rose to the occasion; there wasn’t a time when he didn’t.

Once more they made love, this time at a more leisurely pace.

Later, Lennie barbecued steaks out by the pool, while Lucky fixed them strong margaritas. After they finished eating, they sat on loungers facing the ocean.

“This is my favorite kind of evening,” Lennie said. “You and me—no housekeepers, no kids.”

“Mine too,” Lucky agreed.

“I love our kids, only I gotta say that being alone with you is the best.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, sipping her margarita.

“Talking of kids,” he added, “you spoken to Max lately?”

“Not in the last few days. She seems to be having a good time with all her new friends in London.”

“Not
too
good, I hope. Not like you when you were her age.”

“Oh yeah, eighteen was a really fun time,” Lucky said drily. “There I was, trapped in Washington with Craven Richmond, the dullest, most boring husband in the world, and his desperately ambitious political family. Those were the days.”

“With a dozen lovers on the side, right?”

“Hey, what else was I going to do?” she said, laughing. “Play tennis?”

“Just as well you didn’t. You’d have ripped the ass off any opponent.”

“So eloquent.”

“That’s ’cause I’m a writer.”

“Really?” she said, playing with him. “I thought you were a stand-up comedian.”

“That was way back, babe, when you were sleeping with anything that moved.”

“Oh, and I suppose you weren’t?”

That irresistible grin appeared again. “I had my moments.”

“Yeah, don’t I know it. More girls than hot dinners.”

“That, my crazy beautiful wife, is why neither of us is looking to get out of our marriage. We can truthfully say, ‘Been there, done that.’”

Lucky got up to refill her glass. “I spoke to Gino earlier,” she said. “I’ve persuaded him to come to Vegas next weekend. I want to get him up to speed on my latest project. Can you make it? It would be so great if we were all there together.”

“I’m gonna try.”

“Like I said to Gino, don’t try—do it,” she said, sitting down again.

“We’re in post, which means I might have to stay in L.A. Besides, wouldn’t it be kinda nice for you and Gino to have some alone time?”

“You
do
know that Gino isn’t getting any younger,” she pointed out. “We have to take advantage of every moment.”

“Trust me, Gino Santangelo will outlive us all,” Lennie assured her with a husky laugh. “He ain’t goin’ nowhere, babe. Gino is a raging fucking bull.”

“That he is,” Lucky agreed, once more thinking about her father and their turbulent history. So much hate. So much love. They’d been reconciled for years now, and she loved him with all her heart, although it hadn’t been an easy journey.

“By the way—in case I haven’t told you lately,” Lennie added, “you make me the happiest man in the world.”

“I like it! More!”

“The woman wants more,” Lennie drawled, shaking his head. “You’re insatiable.”

“I think you already know that.”

“I think I do.”

They smiled at each other, totally content.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Italian photographer was thirtyish and hot, with a cocky attitude and hair tied back in a sleek ponytail.
“Ciao,”
he said.

Athena had warned Max about Italian men. In fact, everyone had warned her about Italian men, even Lady Harriet, who’d one day revealed that as a young girl she’d lived in Rome and had experienced a procession of Italian lovers, all of them untrustworthy, concerned only with the size and performance of their precious members.

“Mummy!” Athena had exclaimed, feigning shock. “I never knew you were so bloody randy!”

“I experimented plenty in my day,” Lady Harriet had replied, slurping down even more wine. “And you, my dear, have inherited my adventurous spirit.”

So Max was warned. However, Carlo, with his olive skin and sexy eyes, was quite attractive in a bad-boy kind of way, and Max couldn’t help wondering if
he
would be the one to take her mind off Billy.

It turned out that he wasn’t. He was what Lucky would call an arrogant little prick.

Carlo obviously considered himself the second coming of Mario Testino. He had three assistants, all of whom he treated like crap. Also present were two male representatives from the jeans company, and the usual glam squad of hairstylists, makeup artists, and clothes stylists. Max knew the glam squad through Athena, and they too considered Carlo to be an annoying diva.

“His cock is bigger than his talent,” the makeup man confided in a low voice. “And that’s not saying much.”

Max giggled. She was standing in front of the camera in low-rise jeans and a crop top, her long dark hair piled on top of her head. She radiated sexy teenage spirit.

“Too much trouble for you to concentrate?” Carlo yelled at her across the studio floor. “You look like a donkey with that
stonato
smirk on your face.”

What would Athena do? She’d probably tell him to go fuck himself. But Max was nowhere near the dizzying heights of Athena, so she bit down hard on her lower lip and remained silent. These photos had to be good. No, not good—awesome. These photos were her gateway to the big-time.

One of the jeans reps stepped forward and whispered something in Carlo’s ear.

Carlo gave a vigorous nod and shouted instructions to Max. “Top off,” he commanded as if it was no big deal, and if she were Athena, it wouldn’t have been. However, Max had never done topless, nor did she want to.

“Excuse me?” she said, feeling a sudden rush of nervousness.

“
Scusi
,” he said, mimicking her. “Top off,
sticchiu
.”

She didn’t understand what
sticchiu
meant, but she sure as hell knew it wasn’t nice. “My agent never said anything about nudity,” she ventured, standing her ground.

Carlo launched into a stream of Italian. He then grabbed one of his assistants by the arm, a thin girl with a sallow complexion, her hair in braids, and instructed her to translate. The girl was a wreck. But although Carlo had almost twisted her arm off, she still seemed to be in total awe of him.

“Carlo would like you to remove your top and cover your breasts with your hands,” the girl said in halting English. “He will not show nipples. Artistically, the covering-your-breasts shot will work for him.”

“Oh,” Max gulped. She’d seen Athena do the pose a hundred times, so why not? “Okay,” she mumbled unsurely. “As long as it’s not
too
revealing. I’m like so not into doing nudity.”

The gay stylist hurried forward as Carlo strode around the set, muttering to himself while absentmindedly stroking his manhood as if to reassure himself it was still there. “Let’s go, my beauty,” the stylist murmured. “We will remove your top in privacy.”

“Don’t forget to come back,” Carlo sneered sarcastically as the stylist escorted her to the dressing room. “We have all the time in the world.”

Max threw him a stony look. “Oh, I’ll be back,” she said, recovering her composure. “And these photos better rock!”

And rock they did, for shedding her top forced Max to shed her inhibitions—helped by the few puffs of a joint the stylist happened to have handy.

She returned to the set full of attitude, determined to make it work.

“Can we have some sounds?” she demanded, feeling herself morphing into Athena, who always expected music to be played at her photo sessions.

Drake flooded the studio—pounding out “Best I Ever Had,” followed by CeeLo Green’s “Fuck You,” and then the incomparable Amy W. refusing to go to rehab.

Max settled into working with the camera lens, channeling an old photo of Janet Jackson on the cover of
Rolling Stone
, her hands covering her boobs. Then she started channeling Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry. They’d all posed seminude. If she wanted to make it as a model, she knew that she had to be bold.

Good-bye, inhibitions.

Hello, freedom
.

Carlo was suddenly silent. So was everyone else. Between them they were creating magic, and they both realized it.

*   *   *

Later there were drinks with the glam squad at a nearby pub. All the talk was about how great the photos had turned out, even though Carlo was a major prick.

“Girl, you look wicked amazing,” the stylist assured her.

“As did your tits,” added the makeup man—also gay.

Max had to admit that the digital images she’d seen were pretty incredible—just racy enough. And even though she’d ended up topless, the images were highly stylized, and the only thing on show above her waist was a glimpse of side boob. Nothing for Lucky or Lennie to go ape-shit about, although Lennie probably would, he was so overprotective.

She couldn’t wait for Athena’s opinion; Athena’s approval meant more than anyone’s.

Finally, it was time to go home.

Being in the apartment by herself made for a pleasant change. She took a shower, jumped into bed, and snuggled under the covers, resisting the impulse to google Billy. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.

Hours later she was awakened by the persistent ringing of her doorbell. Groping for her phone, she noted that it was almost three in the morning.

“What the hell…,” she muttered, picking up the intercom. “Who’s there?”

A male voice mumbled something unintelligible. It was Tim, she was sure of it. He sometimes sought refuge with them when, drunk and stoned, he couldn’t make it back to the house he rented in Chelsea. Athena had given him a key to their flat, but of course he’d immediately lost it. Typical Tim behavior.