Vendetta: Lucky's Revenge (4 page)

Freddie led the way with his bland smile and expressionless slate-gray eyes.

Lucky rose to greet him. The thing she liked about Freddie was his businesslike attitude. No phony deal with him, he had a purpose and he got right to it.

Alex Woods followed Freddie into her office. She’d never met Alex, but had read many interviews about him and had often seen his photograph in newspapers and magazines.

The photos did not prepare her for the man’s actual presence. He was tall and well built, with darkly powerful good looks and a killer smile—a smile he immediately flashed in her direction.

For a moment she was quite taken aback. It was a rare occurrence for Lucky to feel vulnerable—almost girlish—it was like she was seventeen, checking out a hot number, and in her single days she’d had enough hot numbers to last several lifetimes.

Freddie introduced them. She shook Alex’s hand. His grasp was firm and strong—a secure man.

She withdrew her hand and started speaking a shade too quickly, pushing back her long dark hair. “Uh…Mr. Woods, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m a big admirer of your work.”

Hmm…Spoken like a true dumb fan. What was
wrong
with her? Why was she reacting like this?

Alex flashed the smile again, giving himself time to digest this woman’s extraordinary beauty. She was dazzling in an offbeat way. Everything about her was incredibly sensual, from her tangle of jet curls to her watchful black eyes and full, soft mouth. Her very fuckable mouth.

He found his eyes dropping to her rounded breasts, concealed beneath a white silk shirt. She was not wearing a bra and he could make out the faint shadow of her nipples. He wondered if she was wearing any underwear at all.

Jesus! What was going on here? He was halfway to a hard-on. Why hadn’t Freddie warned him?

Lucky was well aware of his scrutiny. “Please sit down,” she said, willing herself to keep her mind on business.

Freddie was oblivious to the sexual tension heating up the room. He had an agenda and he stuck to it. Smooth agent talk slipped from his lips like nectar. “Panther needs a filmmaker like Alex Woods,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you how many times his movies have been nominated.”

“I’m well aware of Mr. Woods’s illustrious record,” Lucky said. “And we’d love to be in business with him. However, I understand the projected budget on
Gangsters
is almost twenty-two million. That’s an enormous commitment.”

Freddie was right there with an answer. “Not for an
Alex Woods film,” he said evenly. “His movies always make money.”

“With the right casting,” Lucky pointed out.

“Alex’s casting is impeccable. He doesn’t need stars—the public comes for him.”

Alex leaned forward. “Did you read the script?” he asked, watching her closely.

Her eyes met his with a level gaze. She knew he was waiting for compliments—she also knew it was better to keep him off balance—for now. “Yes, I did,” she said without blinking. “It’s violent, but truthful.” A pause. “My father, Gino, was in Vegas at that time. He built the original Mirage Hotel. You might enjoy meeting him.”

His eyes remained fixed on hers. “I’d like that very much.”

She refused to be the one to break the look. “I’ll arrange it,” she said coolly, pretending they weren’t locked into some subliminal eye-contact power struggle. “He lives in Palm Springs.”

“I can drive down there any time you say.”

“So,” Freddie said, sensing closure. “Do we have a deal?”

“More or less,” Lucky replied, switching her attention to Freddie and then getting mad at herself for being the first to look away.

Freddie ignored the fact that her reply was somewhat ambiguous. “This is a winning combination,” he predicted enthusiastically. “‘Panther Studios presents Alex Woods’s
Gangsters
.’ I can smell the Oscar now!”

“Just one small thing,” Lucky said, picking up her favorite silver pen—another present from Lennie—and tapping it impatiently on her desk. “I’m aware that Paramount passed on this project because of the graphic violence, and I’m not asking you to tone it down. However…about the sex…”

“What about it?” Alex demanded, challenging her to object.

“The script makes it clear several of the actresses are naked in certain scenes—yet it seems our hero and his friends remain modestly covered.”

“What’s the problem?” Alex asked, genuinely not getting it.

“Well…” Lucky said slowly. “This is an equal opportunity studio. If the females get to take it off—so do the guys.”

“Huh?” Alex said blankly.

Suddenly Lucky was back in control. “Let me put it this way, Mr. Woods. If we get to see tits an’ ass, we get to see dick, too. And I’m
not
talking Dick Clark.” A small smile as Freddie and Alex reeled at the thought. “And if we can work that out, then, gentlemen—we’ve got a deal.”

“
HOW OLD ARE YOU, SWEETIE?” THE FIFTY-FIVE
-
year-old lech in the Brioni suit asked the exceptionally pretty, fresh-faced honey blond sitting across from his desk.

“Nineteen,” she replied truthfully, although she’d already lied about her name, substituting Brown as her surname instead of Stanislopoulos. Brigette Stanislopoulos was a mouthful, whereas Brigette Brown had a certain ring to it. Plus, Brown was anonymous, and Brigette had no intention of anyone finding out who she was.

“Well,” Mr. Fifty-Five-Year-Old said and cleared his throat, wondering if anyone had nailed this delectable piece of female flesh. “You’ve certainly got all the attributes to have a very successful career as a model.” His eyes lingered on her breasts. “You’re tall enough, pretty enough, and if you lost ten pounds, you’d be thin enough.” A pause. “Get rid of the baby fat and I’ll arrange for you to have test shots taken.” Another pause. “In the meantime, I’ll take you to dinner tonight and we’ll discuss your future.”

“Sorry,” Brigette said, rising to her feet, “I’m busy tonight.” She paused at the door. “But, uh…I, like, certainly appreciate your advice.”

Mr. Lech jumped up. He was surprised she hadn’t accepted his invitation—they usually did. Girls who wanted to be models were always hungry on account of the fact that they usually had no money and a free meal was a free meal; dinner with him was considered a coup.

“How about tomorrow night?” he suggested with an encouraging leer.

Brigette smiled sweetly. She had a lovely smile, as innocent as spring flowers. “Do you want to fuck me or get me started as a model?” she asked, shocking the socks off Mr. Lech, who was not used to being spoken to in such a fashion by a junior piece of ass.

“You have a dirty mouth, little girl,” he said angrily.

“All the better to say good-bye with,” she said, slipping through the door, calling out a final “See you on the cover of
Glamour
!”

She hit the street, steaming at his condescending attitude. Men! What pigs! Lose ten pounds indeed, she was not fat—in fact, she was as thin as she’d ever been. And did he honestly think she would go to dinner with an old cretin like him?
No way
. “Read my lips, old man,” she said aloud as she bounced along Madison Avenue. “You are
not
a contender!”

Nobody took any notice. This was New York, and here you could get away with anything.

Brigette was five feet eight inches tall and weighed a hundred and ten pounds. She had sun-kissed honey-blond hair, which she wore shoulder length and straight. Her lips were full and pouting, her eyes blue and knowing, and her skin had a glistening, luminous quality. She radiated health and energy. Most men found her fresh-faced sex appeal irresistible.

Brigette loved the city. She was crazy about the hot, dirty sidewalks and the way a person could get lost in the rushing crowds. In New York she was not Brigette Stanislopoulos—one of the richest girls in the world. In
New York she was just another pretty face desperately trying to carve out a career.

Thank God Lucky and Lennie had understood when she’d informed them she wanted to skip college and take a shot at making it as a model in New York. They had not objected; in fact, they’d convinced her maternal grandmother, Charlotte, she should go for it, but only on the condition that if it didn’t work out, in six months she’d go to college and continue her education.

No chance. Because it
was
going to work out. Brigette was a true believer, something good
had
to happen for her.

So far her luck had not been the best. Okay, so she was wealthy, but what did that mean? It wasn’t like she’d earned the money herself, her fortune was just sitting there—inherited from her billionaire grandfather, Dimitri, and her mother, Olympia. Both of them dead and buried. A lot of good the money had done them.

Her real father, Claudio Cadducci, was also dead. Not such a sad thing, for she’d never known him; her mother had divorced him as soon as she’d given birth to Brigette because of his constant indiscretions. They’d been married when Olympia was nineteen and Claudio forty-five. According to all reports, Claudio had been a handsome Italian businessman with immense charm and an expensive wardrobe. Part of his divorce settlement had included two Ferraris and three million dollars. Unfortunately, Claudio never had time to enjoy the cars or the money because a few months later he’d stepped out of a limo in Paris and been accidentally blown to pieces by a terrorist’s bomb.

Olympia immediately married again, this time to a Polish count who lasted exactly sixteen weeks. Brigette didn’t remember the count at all, the only stepfather she’d known was Lennie, whom she adored.

Sometimes she missed her mother with a deep feeling
of emptiness that nothing could fill. She’d been twelve when Olympia had died and there’d been nobody to take her place—except Grandmother Charlotte, a New York socialite who had an extremely active social life; and Lucky and Lennie, who were both so involved with their work and their kids that even though they made time whenever they could, it wasn’t enough.

Brigette knew she had to find something to fill the void.

It certainly wasn’t going to be a man. Men were not to be trusted. Men were after only one thing. Sex.

She’d had sex and she didn’t want it again. Not until she was the most famous supermodel in the world.

Last year she’d gotten engaged for about ten minutes to the grandson of one of her grandfather’s business rivals. They’d had a great time together until she’d discovered he was a total coke freak. Brigette wasn’t into drugs. She’d ended the engagement quickly, and taken off for Greece, where she’d spent time with her grandfather’s relatives.

Stopping off at Bloomingdale’s, she perused the makeup counters, buying a pale-bronze lipstick and some shiny lip gloss. She loved makeup as long as it was natural-looking. It was fun experimenting—trying new looks. When she was a star, she planned on launching a personal makeup line. Oh yes, she was going to amass her own fortune—it was merely a matter of time.

She’d been in New York for seven weeks and Mr. Fifty-Five-Year-Old Lech was the third modeling agent she’d seen. It wasn’t easy getting appointments, and since she had no intention of using her connections, she’d simply have to keep slogging away. An annoying thought, for Brigette was impatient, she expected it to happen yesterday.

She took a cab back to the apartment she shared with another girl in SoHo. Both Charlotte and Lucky had
insisted she have a roommate although Brigette was sure she would’ve been perfectly fine on her own.

Lucky had personally found Anna, the girl she shared with. Anna was in her late twenties, a thin girl with long brown hair and dreamy eyes. She wrote poetry, stayed home most of the time, and was always available to do anything Brigette wanted. Brigette suspected Anna was a paid spy planted to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t bothered; after all, she had no secrets.

Anna was cooking eggs when Brigette got in. “How’d it go today?” she inquired, adding too much pepper to the runny eggs.

“Okay,” Brigette said, thinking that it had not gone well at all. It never did. Oh, God! Maybe she was doomed to failure.

Anna brushed a lock of fine hair out of her eyes. “Do they want you?”

“Ha!” Brigette replied, not pleased. “They want me to lose ten pounds.”

“You’re not fat.”

Brigette pulled a face. “Don’t I know it,” she said, smoothing down her extra-short skirt. “He said I had baby fat.”

“Baby fat!”

“Yes. What a retard!”

Anna continued to stir the eggs. “So what next?”

Brigette shrugged. “I’ll keep trying.”

Later she ordered pizza and sat out on the fire escape eating it because the apartment was so uncomfortably hot. She could have been living in luxury in an air-conditioned penthouse on Park Avenue. That was not for her—she preferred the struggle.

Munching a slice of pizza, she thought about her life and the twisted turns it had taken.

Sometimes it was difficult to believe.

Sometimes she burst out crying for no reason.

Sometimes the memory of Tim Wealth came back to haunt her and she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

Tim Wealth. Hot young movie star.

He’d taken her virginity at fifteen. And gotten himself murdered for his trouble.

How well she remembered him. How many nights she shuddered at the memories.

Poor Tim had gotten in the way of Santino Bonnatti—a lifelong enemy of the Santangelos—just when Santino was in the middle of a kidnapping attempt on Brigette and her younger half-brother, Bobby.

Santino’s men had brutally murdered Tim and left him dead in his apartment, while she and Bobby were forcibly taken to Santino’s house and sexually abused. She could still recall in sickening detail cowering naked and terrified in the center of Santino’s bed while the perverted freak, clad only in his underwear, stripped off her little brother’s clothes and prepared to commit an obscene act.

It was then she’d spotted the gun placed casually on a bedside table, and as Bobby’s anguished screams filled the room, she’d known she had to do something.

Silently sobbing, she’d crawled across the bed and reached for the weapon.

Santino was too busy with Bobby to notice.

With shaking hands, she’d picked up the gun, pointed it straight at the monster, and squeezed the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Good-bye, Santino.

She shook her head vigorously—trying desperately not to remember.

Shut out the memories, Brigette
.

Forget the past
.

Concentrate on now…

“She’s a crazy bitch,” Alex said irritably.

“She’s putting up the money for your movie,” Freddie replied mildly.

“What’s her fucking problem?” Alex steamed.

“Didn’t know she had one.”

“Christ! You heard her.”

Freddie sighed patiently. “What?”

“She wants to see actors with their cocks hanging out. What kind of shit is that? Doesn’t she realize there’s a double standard?”

“Don’t let it bother you.”

“It
does
fucking bother me,” Alex said angrily as they reached their cars.

“Why?” Freddie asked, one hand on the door of his gleaming Bentley Continental. “Whatever you shoot’ll have to be cut. She can’t afford an X rating, it’ll kill the grosses, plus the theater chains won’t book an X. She’ll realize that.”

“She must be some sick broad,” Alex muttered.

Freddie laughed. “Well, she sure got to you, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Because she’s stupid.”

“No,” Freddie said quickly. “That’s one thing Lucky’s not. She took over Panther two years ago and she’s doing an excellent job. She had no previous experience in the film industry, yet she’s definitely turning things around.”

“Okay, okay, she’s a fucking genius—but I’m not asking any of my actors to march around stark naked.”

“Nicely put, Alex. I’ll call you later.”

Freddie got in his Bentley and took off.

Alex stood beside his black Porsche, still fuming at Lucky’s request. Didn’t she realize women were not turned on by male nudity? It was a well-known fact.

He got in his car and drove to his production offices, located on Pico. He’d called his production company Woodsan Productions—because it sounded peaceful and still incorporated his name. He owned the building—one of his better business investments.

He had two assistants, Lili, a softly pretty Chinese woman in her forties without whom he claimed he could not function. And France, an exquisite Vietnamese twenty-five-year-old who’d once been a bar girl in Saigon before he’d chivalrously rescued her and brought her to America. He’d slept with both of them, but that was in the past and now they were nothing more than loyal assistants.

“How was your meeting?” Lili asked anxiously.

He slumped in a worn leather chair behind his enormous littered desk. “Good,” he said. “
Gangsters
has a new home.”

Lili clapped her hands together. “I knew it!”

France brought him a mug of hot black tea, stood behind him, and began massaging his shoulders with relaxing, kneading movements. “Very tense,” she scolded. “Not good.”

He could feel the pressure of her small, firm breasts against the back of his neck while her surprisingly strong hands dug deep. It was comforting. Asian women were the best.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said, still uptight about Lucky’s request.

“Yes?” both women chorused.

“Do you get off looking at naked guys?”

Lili’s expression was impassive as she tried to figure out the answer Alex wanted. France burst out in giggles.

“Well?” Alex demanded, none too pleased by their hesitation.

“
What
naked men?” Lili asked, stalling for time.

“On the screen,” Alex said shortly. “Actors.”

“Mel Gibson? Johnny Romano?” France said hopefully.

“Jesus!” Alex exclaimed, fast losing patience. “It doesn’t matter
who
they are.”

“Oh, yes it does!” France retorted, abruptly stopping his massage. “Anthony Hopkins
—no
! Richard Gere,
yes
!”

“Or Liam Neeson,” Lili added, a faraway look in her eyes.

“I’m not talking about just their upper torso,” Alex said ominously. “I’m talking about everything—the whole caboodle.”

Lili figured out the answer he required, and even though she didn’t mean it, she knew how to keep her boss happy. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to see that.”

“Exactly,” Alex exclaimed triumphantly. “Women don’t
want
to see it.”

“I do,” France murmured, low enough for him not to hear.

“Why are you asking?” Lili inquired.

“’Cause Lucky Santangelo is a crazy bitch who’s under the false impression women want to act like men.”

“Crazy bitch,” parroted France, thinking to herself that Lucky Santangelo must be a really interesting woman whom she couldn’t wait to meet.