* * *
Ryder Wheeler introduced Paige to Vitos. He bowed. Clicked his heels together. Murmured, ‘
Enchanté.’
Paige thought he was full of shit.
Eden danced with the tallest of Santino’s friends, the one with the small mean eyes and the greasy hair. Add B.O., bad breath, and sweaty palms to his list of accomplishments.
She hoped Lennie wasn’t watching her.
In spite of the fact that he was surrounded by girls, she knew he was. She could have him back any time she wanted.
One sign of encouragement from her and he’d come running.
It made her feel good, in spite of Sweaty Palms grinding his semi-hard-on into her thigh.
Lennie got up, relieved Mouth of her cameras, and whirled her around the dance floor ignoring her protestations about not being dressed for it.
‘You’re the best-looking girl here,’ he said, as soon as he was close enough for Eden to overhear.
‘I’ve got to work,’ Mouth insisted. ‘Take me back to my cameras.’
He noticed Eden smirking. She had an infuriating way of curling her mouth at one corner.
Their eyes met, and they both practised mutual non-recognition.
Olympia announced she wished to meet the comedian. Matt arranged it on neutral territory between the two camps.
‘You’re very very funny,’ Olympia said, in her most charming fashion. ‘I must watch your television show, I hear it’s hilarious.’
Lennie smiled his thanks, and was just about to move on when he spotted Eden watching him. This time there was no curled lip. This time she was jealous.
What does it take to make Eden Antonio jealous?
One of the richest women in the world.
He gave Olympia Stanislopoulos the benefit of his ocean-green eyes, and a lopsided grin. ‘Wanna dance?’ he asked.
She smiled. Lovely smile. Lovely hair. Lovely boobs. It was a shame she was thirty pounds overweight.
‘Yes,’ she said.
And they hit the dance floor to the strains of ‘Street Life’.
* * *
The evening progressed.
Dessert was giant bowls of ten different flavour ice creams with various toppings. The handsome black singer gave his all to interesting imitations of Stevie Wonder and Smokey Robinson.
Vitos Felicidade enjoyed the attentions of every woman in the place. He failed to notice that Olympia had settled in a corner with Lennie Golden, and that their conversation appeared more than casual.
Eden noticed. She danced with Santino’s lousy friends and noticed a whole lot.
Jess resumed friendship with the member of Vitos’ band she had been talking to earlier. He played guitar, spoke passable English, and had very expressive eyes and hands.
Matt watched from afar. He wasn’t pleased. It was obvious Jess was coming on to the guitar player because Lennie was making out with the rich broad.
Santino decided he wanted his picture taken with Vitos Felicidade. He liked being photographed with celebrities – he had quite a collection. Eden was summoned from the dance floor where she was struggling with Santino’s short hairy-friend. He was even shorter and hairier than Santino himself, and she was delighted to be relieved of duty.
Ryder Wheeler took them over to Vitos’ table and introduced them. Vitos dazzled her with his teeth, took her hand, squeezed it imperceptibly, brought it to his lips and kissed it. His eyes were pools of desire.
‘Enchanté,’ he
murmured.
She thought she read a definite message – a message that said,
‘I want to make love to you. Soon. Very soon. You won’t regret it.’
Santino shoved her between them for the photo. Vitos’ touch made her shiver.
Santino decided he didn’t like that pose, so he put himself in the middle and made the house photographer take it again.
Vitos was most cooperative. His manager had filled him in on Santino Bonnatti, They had been negotiating for weeks with Ryder Wheeler about the movie he wanted Vitos to star in. Money seemed to be the only stumbling block, and Ryder had explained that Bonnatti was the chief investor, and as such made the final decision. Vitos wanted to do the movie. He oozed charm.
Lennie observed Eden. She had the hots for the Spanish singer. Her body language was eloquent. At the same time he managed to catch every word Olympia Stanislopoulos was saying. She had overdosed on champagne, and was regaling him with tales of her life. Poor little rich girl. Too much too soon. It wasn’t easy being one of the richest girls in the world. People used you for who you were. They wanted your money, notoriety, or they just wanted to be seen with you.
He started to feel sorry for her. Everyone expected the image. The rich spoilt bitch. But this was a rather sad, insecure woman, who, if she lost some weight, would be very attractive.
Not his type, of course.
Spectacular boobs.
Not his type.
Of course.
Eden was watching them.
‘Why don’t we get out of here?’ Olympia whispered forlornly. ‘I need to be with someone who cares.’
Eden was watching them.
He hesitated. ‘I thought you were with Vitos.’
She shrugged. ‘He’s not a man, he’s a puppet. Pull his string and he sings. Pull again and he smiles for the cameras.’
Eden was
definitely
watching them.
What sweet revenge to exit with Olympia Stanislopoulos while Eden was stuck with her gangster boyfriend.
He stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said decisively. ‘I’ll buy you a drink at my place.’
Lucky did not linger in L.A. She had told Gino about his grandchild and her marriage before he read about it in the newspapers, and that fulfilled her obligations. Fortunately Dimitri had the power to keep the news from breaking in the press until he was ready to make the announcement.
The morning after dining at his house, she ordered a limo, booked a flight, and set off early for New York with Roberto and CeeCee.
She wasn’t angry at Gino. Their evening together had been wonderful until Susan broke the spell. But she had to be realistic. Things were different now. It wasn’t father and daughter against the world. It was father, with a wife, stepchildren, and a new kind of lifestyle. And it was daughter, with a husband and son. She had other priorities too.
She left a message at the desk for Costa. To Gino, she wrote a short note, explaining that Dimitri had returned early from Europe and she had to get back to New York immediately.
Dimitri . . . When she had told Gino who she was married to there had been an ominous silence. He was too smart to criticize, and a muttered, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow morning over breakfast,’ was all that he’d said.
Well,
she
was having breakfast aboard a 747. She wondered what
he
was doing.
* * *
‘More toast?’ Susan asked.
Gino shook his head.
‘Tea?’
Again negative.
‘How about a Danish? Prune. Your favourite.’
He got up from the table and paced the breakfast room. Lucky’s note had arrived while he was dressing. It had upset him. Why was she running off?
It was Susan’s fault. Susan and her goddamn phone call. Interrupting him just when he felt the time was right to speak to Lucky about her mother’s murder. He had wanted to talk to her for so long . . . And then there was the subject of her marriage to Dimitri Stanislopoulos. Was she crazy? The man was old enough to be her
grandfather.
And he had a lousy reputation. The world knew he had been sleeping with Francesca Fern for years, and
she
was a barracuda.
Jeez! What Lucky needed was a little fatherly advice. Not that she’d appreciate it. She’d probably tell him where he could shove it.
But he was her father. He had to try, didn’t he?
‘How about some fresh grapefruit?’ Susan asked cheerily.
He wanted to scream at her. Tell her to shut the fuck up.
But then he reasoned it wasn’t her fault she had started to bore the shit out of him.
She
hadn’t changed.
He
had. Not for Gino Santangelo the sedentary life of luxury Beverly Hills offered. Not for Gino Santangelo the openings and events, the small talk and the gossip. He was a street kid, used to a fast life. Right now he was seventy-four and feeling it.
Back in Vegas, where he belonged, he knew he’d regain his energy and drive.
* * *
Dimitri’s New York apartment was old-fashioned, pristine, and filled with priceless antiques. Two servants and a butler lived in, and two more came in daily to attend to the more menial tasks.
Lucky arrived the day before Dimitri, and hated it. She had been to the apartment before, but living there was another thing.
Total redecoration had to take place, or she was returning to her house in the Hamptons, which she loved. It was so white and airy, and peaceful. The only thing she had changed about it was the swimming pool. The ground had been filled in, and a rose garden planted.
Sometimes, in recurring nightmares, she could still see the floating raft . . . her mother’s body . . . spread-eagled . . . dead . . .
Dimitri phoned from Paris. ‘How is Roberto?’ were the first words he uttered.
‘Fine. He wants a new room.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your apartment is
depressing.
Can I do something with it?’
‘Do you object to my furnishings? The finest interior designer in New York worked with me on it.’
He hardly thought he should reveal that when he decorated the apartment five years before, Francesca Fern had been threatening to leave her husband. It was she who had worked with the designer with a view to moving in, but by the time it was completed she had changed her mind, and reconciled with Horace.
Dimitri had been furious. However, he loved the way she had decorated the apartment. He had no wish to change it.
‘It’s so old-fashioned and stuffy,’ Lucky complained.
‘We’ll discuss it,’ Dimitri replied.
‘You’ve
got
to be kidding. No discussions. It’s dull and I’m changing it.’
They talked a while longer, and when Dimitri replaced the receiver he was thoughtful. Lucky Santangelo was young, and strong-willed. Her language was sometimes startling, and she did what she wanted. He was used to a different kind of woman. Expensive jet-set beauties, with a knowledge of all the finer things in life. Lucky was a gypsy. Had he done the right thing marrying her?
Yes. She was the mother of his son and heir. And as such, she deserved his name.
In Paris, Francesca Fern had re-entered his life with a vengeance. Francesca with her red hair, wide crimson lips, and husky dramatic voice. She had been cool to him for two years, ever since their confrontation in Las Vegas at the gala honouring her. But Francesca had uncanny timing. She knew he was no longer available, so she wanted him again. She called him in Paris. ‘I had a feeling you’d be here,’ she murmured, her tone warmer than it had been for years. ‘I’m alone. When shall we see each other? Tonight?’
Francesca was not a woman to turn down. She throbbed with sexual passion. She had been his mistress for many years, and Dimitri saw nothing wrong in continuing the affair. It certainly would not affect his relationship with Lucky. ‘Tonight,’ he promised.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she purred.
And so she was back in his life.
Fred Lester, the publisher, called Carrie several times. He wanted to take her to lunch and discuss the book she was supposed to be thinking about. After the third call she decided that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Fate had brought her into the office of Fred Lester, why didn’t she take advantage of it?
She agreed to lunch with him. They went to The Four Seasons and talked about her non-existent book.
‘I’ve found the ideal ghost writer for you,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Her name is Anna Robb. She works fast, and I think you’ll approve of her style.’
He named two well-known television stars whose beauty and exercise books she had worked on.
‘Didn’t they write the books themselves?’ Carrie asked naively.
Fred laughed and said briskly, ‘They had neither the time nor the talent. Not that I’m casting any aspersions on
your
talent,’ he added quickly. ‘Maybe you don’t want or need help. But believe me, if you’ve never done it before it’s easier this way. No worries about grammar or punctuation or putting sentences together. Just a free thought flow, which Anna will capture on a tape recorder. How does that sound to you?’
Carrie had to admit it sounded pretty easy.
‘Do you have an agent?’ he asked.
‘Do I need one?’ she countered.
‘If I was to lie, I’d say no. But an agent does look after your best interests. Although I’m prepared to offer you a very fair deal, and you can trust me. You do know that, don’t you?’