Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (12 page)

LUCKY SAT VERY STILL, GAZING STRAIGHT AHEAD
.
She knew she should be crying, screaming, anything other than this icy calm that seemed to have crept over her, seeping into every pore, deadening her feelings.

Lennie was dead.

Her
Lennie was
gone
.

And yet…she remained lucid and in control, as if her life moved around her in a kind of blurred slow motion.

She was numb with grief. Devastated. And yet…the tears didn’t flow.

She sat on Lennie’s bed in a hotel room in a foreign country and her husband was dead and she did not weep.

Little Lucky Santangelo. She was five years old when she’d discovered the mutilated body of her mother floating in the family swimming pool; twenty-five when they’d gunned down her first real love, Marco; even younger when her brother, Dario, was shot and thrown from a car.

Death was no stranger to the Santangelos. Lucky knew what it meant only too well.

And now Lennie was gone…her Lennie, the love of her life.

Or was he?

She considered the circumstances.

THE FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCES.

Riding from the airport to the hotel. Grabbing the key to his room from a surprised desk clerk. Noting a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on his door.

She’d entered Lennie’s world away from her and was disappointed to find he wasn’t there.

The bed was unmade, the room an untidy mess. Well…Lennie had never been known for his housekeeping skills.

Details…details…She’d absorbed them one by one. The overflowing ashtrays on both bedside tables. A nearly empty bottle of champagne…two glasses, one rimmed with lipstick. A silk chemise crumpled on the floor, half hidden beneath the bed.

THIS MUST BE THE WRONG ROOM.

No. It wasn’t. There was her picture with the children turned facedown on a table. Lennie’s clothes were everywhere, his script, phone book, his special silver pen—the one she’d bought him at Tiffany’s, matching the one he’d bought her.

She’d called the production office, trying to locate him. By that time, news was trickling through of a horrible accident on the treacherous mountain roads.

They came and got her, the line producer and a production executive. They took her with them in a car up the twisting narrow road, where they all stood in horror, watching as rescue teams went to work, trying to recover the wrecked car hundreds of feet below where it had smashed onto rocks and burned before ending up in the angry sea swirling beneath them.

Lucky had known with an overwhelming feeling of dread that she would never see Lennie again.

Now, she sat alone in his hotel room. Cleaned by maids, the champagne gone, the ashtrays washed and pristine, her picture with the children back in position.

FUCK YOU, LENNIE. HOW COULD YOU LEAVE US?

The phone kept on ringing. She ignored it, having no desire to speak to anyone. Her plane was on standby, awaiting instructions. Right now she was incapable of making a decision about anything.

They’d recovered the body of the driver, fished from the sea and identified through medical records. Lennie was still missing.

“They didn’t have a chance,” one of the police detectives had explained through a sympathetic interpreter.

After a while, Lucky got up and mechanically began packing Lennie’s things. His T-shirts, socks, sweaters. His workout clothes. A favorite jacket. His collection of denim work shirts that he liked to wear every day. She did it slowly, methodically, almost as if she were in a trance.

When she was finished with his clothes, she gathered together his script, and several yellow legal pads—the first draft of a script he was writing. Then she pulled open the drawer of the bedside table, where she discovered several Polaroids of a naked blond. She stared at them for a long, silent moment. The blond was exceptionally pretty, her legs spread wide, a seductive smile on her dumb-ass face.

FUCK YOU, LENNIE. FUCK YOU. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFERENT.

No tears. Disappointment. Hurt. Anger. A tremendous feeling of letdown and betrayal.

She remembered when she’d walked in on her second husband, Dimitri, in bed with the opera singer, Francesca Fern. She hadn’t cried then. There was no reason for her to do so now.

“Be strong,” that was her motto. Over the years, it was the only way she’d managed to survive.

There were more photos to be found. Lennie standing with the blond, her naked body wrapped intimately around him. Another shot of the two of them, apparently taken on the set. Lennie with his arm across her shoulders. Very cozy.

AND NOW YOU’RE DEAD, YOU SONOFABITCH. AND YOU CAN NEVER EXPLAIN.

Not that she wanted explanations.

Who cared?

Who gave a damn?

Lennie Golden was just another guy with a hard-on. Another horny actor on location.

WELL, FUCK YOU, LENNIE GOLDEN. FUCK YOU.

And the pain of loss was unbearable.

She finished packing his stuff into two suitcases and jammed them shut. The photographs she slipped into a zippered compartment in her purse.

After a while she picked up the phone and called her father in Palm Springs. They’d spoken earlier when she’d asked Gino to take the children. He had them safely with him.

“Come home,” Gino urged.

“I will,” she replied listlessly. “I’m waiting for them to recover Lennie’s body…I want to bring him back with me.”

“Uh…Lucky—it could take awhile. You should be with your kids.”

“I’ll give it another twenty-four hours.”

“There’s nothin’ you can do there. When they find him, the production office will make arrangements. You gotta come home now.”

“I…I need some time.”

“No!” Gino said harshly. “You should be with your family.”

She didn’t care to be lectured to. She didn’t care about anything. “I’ll call you, Daddy,” she said, her voice quiet and low.

Before he could argue further, she replaced the receiver and began roaming aimlessly around the room. Lennie. So tall. So sexy. That great grin. Those penetrating green eyes. That lanky body.

Lennie.
Her
Lennie.

She couldn’t put him out of her mind. She could feel his skin, smell his smell, and she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

Lennie.

Cheater.

FUCK YOU, LENNIE.

YOU BETRAYED ME AND I CAN NEVER FORGIVE YOU FOR THAT.

Two Months Later

“
HI,” LUCKY SAID. SHE WAS SEATED BEHIND HER
massive desk twirling Lennie’s silver pen as Alex Woods entered her office for their six o’clock meeting.

“Hello,” Alex responded, pausing at the door. He hadn’t seen her since the tragedy, although it wasn’t for want of trying. She’d been difficult to get hold of—elusive, always on the run. Even Freddie had been unable to arrange a meeting.

“People handle grief in different ways,” Freddie had explained. “There’s always problems at the studio. Lucky’s thrown herself into work.”

“
I’m
work,” Alex had pointed out. “And I’ve got to have a meeting.”

Actually, there was no necessity for them to meet. Everything was being taken care of. Budget approval, casting, location choices—Lucky’s head of production was on top of it, Alex had no complaints. If all continued to proceed at such a timely pace, they’d be able to commence principal photography within weeks.

“Come in, sit down,” Lucky said.

He walked in, observing she looked tired; there were smudgy dark circles under her eyes and an edginess he hadn’t noticed before.

She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Look,” he said, “before we get into anything, I want you to know how sorry I was to hear about Lennie—”

“Forget it,” she interrupted briskly. “It’s the past.” She knew she was probably coming across as hard and uncaring, but she couldn’t worry about how Alex Woods perceived her. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered.

She leaned back, automatically reaching for a cigarette. Her bad habits had come back to haunt her with a vengeance.

Earlier in the day she’d had a strangely disturbing meeting with Morton Sharkey. Her gut reaction told her Morton was up to something, only she couldn’t figure out what. For once, things were running smoothly at the studio, the banks were quiet, and the Japanese had said yes to the merchandising deal. The truth was that businesswise, things couldn’t be better.

After Morton left she’d downed a couple of Scotches, wondering what it was about him that was making her uneasy. Their meeting had gone well except for one thing—Morton had been unable to look her in the eyes, and from past experience she knew this was a bad sign.

But she had other things to worry about. She was well aware that personally she was in big trouble. Something inside her was ready to explode. Something that had been deeply buried for the last two months.

Lennie was dead, and she was carrying on as if nothing had happened. Business as usual.

Well, fuck business. Fuck everything. She was tired and despondent and very, very angry.

Alex Woods was staring at her, she could feel the heat of his eyes. “Everything going well?” she asked, returning to the present. “Or are you here to complain?”

“As a matter of fact, I have no complaints,” he said, noting that she was in a defensive mood.

“
That
makes a pleasant change,” she said coolly. “Everyone else is driving me nuts.” She paused; he hadn’t shaved, and the faint stubble on his chin added to his attractiveness. “Congratulations on signing Johnny Romano,” she said. “He’s an excellent choice.”

“Glad you approve.”

“I wouldn’t have okayed him if I didn’t.” She picked up her list of phone messages, stared blankly at it for a moment, then put it down. “How about a drink?” she suggested, anxious to have another one herself.

Alex consulted his watch; it was past six, definitely martini time. “You look like you’ve had a heavy day,” he said. “How about we go to the bar at the Bel Air Hotel?”

“A fine idea,” she said, buzzing Kyoko. “I’m outta here. Cancel my other appointments.”

“But, Lucky—” Kyoko began.

“Don’t give me a song an’ dance, Ky,” she said sharply. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She got up from behind her desk, grabbed her jacket, and joined Alex at the door. “Christ! If I can’t do what I want occasionally, then what’s it all about, huh?”

“You won’t get a fight from me,” he agreed, smelling the faint aroma of Scotch on her breath.

She smiled, a dazzling smile. “Good. Because I am so bored playing the poor little widow.”

He was too surprised to say anything as they walked outside.

“My car or yours?” she said, standing still for a moment.

“Where’s yours?” he asked, trying to keep his eyes off her long legs. After all, this was business.

“Parked over there, the red Ferrari.”

Naturally
. “I’m the black Porsche,” he said.

“Then, my dear Alex, the black Porsche it is—’cause I’ve a feeling I will not be in a driving mood later.”

All he’d expected was a meeting; this was turning out
to be more than that. But he was into it, even though he had an eight o’clock date with Tin Lee, a date he knew it was highly unlikely he’d keep.

Lucky got in his car, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Oh, how sweet it was making a daring escape. She’d had it with meetings and budgets and business decisions and SHIT SHIT SHIT. She’d had it with the goddamn studio. She’d had it with the responsibility of being a mother and a respectable pillar of society and the proper widow. It was too fucking much. She was going insane. She had no outlet for the fierce anger that was beginning to consume her.

Lennie had left. Checked out. Gone.

Lennie was an unfaithful sonofabitch and she couldn’t forgive him for that.

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“You’re looking well,” Alex said.

She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Do you have any family?” she asked.

“A mother,” he replied carefully, wondering what this was leading to.

“Are you close?”

“Like a snake and a rat.”

“Snakes eat rats.”

“You got it.”

Lucky laughed dryly. It occurred to her she’d picked the perfect drinking companion, and that’s exactly what she required tonight, someone who could keep up with her and not fall by the wayside.

“I need a joint,” she said restlessly.

“No problem,” he said, reaching in his pocket and handing her a half-smoked roach that he just happened to have with him.

She pushed in the dashboard lighter, waited for the glow, then lit up, taking a long, satisfying pull. “You’re very obliging, Alex.”

“Not always.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Making an exception for me ’cause my studio’s putting up the money for your movie?”

He went along with her mood. “Yeah, sure, that’s it.”

She gazed at him steadily. “Or maybe you feel sorry for me ’cause I lost my husband?”

He kept his eyes on the road. “You can take care of yourself.”

She sighed. “That’s what everybody thinks.”

He shot a quick glance at her. “Are they right or wrong?”

“Hey,” she said restlessly. “How about we drive to the Springs and visit Gino? You said you wanted to meet him. Catch me while I’m in the mood.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, boy, you’re an agreeable one.”

If she only knew! Alex Woods had never been called agreeable. Difficult—yes. Sexist—yes. Moody, demanding, a perfectionist—all of those things. But agreeable? No way.

“You might be getting a false impression of me,” he said, speaking slowly. “Y’know, nice guy helping out beautiful woman who seems to be troubled. I’ve got that chivalry thing buried somewhere inside me.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said, staring blankly out the window. “Let’s get a drink before we hit the freeway.”

They stopped at a Mexican restaurant on Melrose. Lucky downed straight tequila while Alex opted for a margarita. Then he ordered a pitcher to go while Lucky visited the ladies’ room, called home, told Cee Cee she wouldn’t be back tonight and that she could be reached at Gino’s house in Palm Springs.

Lucky was well aware she had nothing to complain about, everyone around her had been incredibly supportive, from Gino to Brigette, who’d flown in from New
York and stayed at the house for several weeks. Even her half-brother, Steven, and his wife had come in from London to attend Lennie’s memorial service. The service had been special. She’d gotten through it with strength and grace. Little Maria had clung to her while baby Gino stayed in Cee Cee’s loving arms. Later, she’d thrown a party at Morton’s with all of Lennie’s friends and colleagues because that’s what he would have wanted. His eccentric mother had insisted on making an embarrassing speech.

Dry-eyed, Lucky had gotten through it all.

Now, two months later, she was ready to crack.

Alex didn’t bother calling Tin Lee. For a start, he couldn’t remember her number. And second, who cared? It didn’t matter anyway, Miss Compliant was on a fast train out of his life.

“Hey—Alex.” Lucky touched his sleeve as they left the restaurant. “Whatever I say tonight—promise not to hold it against me. I’m in a weird place.”

He looked at her, somewhat intrigued. “What might you say, Lucky?”

“Anything I feel like,” she answered boldly.

Alex had a strong suspicion this was going to be an interesting journey.