Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [121]
He couldn’t wait to see Annabelle’s expression when she realized they were not alone.
Would she run out on him?
Or would she stay?
He needed her to stay. She knew the Santangelo family, so that made her useful. Perhaps ignoring her was not in his best interest.
What was in his best interest?
His mind was filled with raging thoughts of seeing Lucky Santangelo dead. Shot. The bullet hitting her directly in her loud mouth, the mouth that had dared to insult him.
But how to arrange it?
Fouad would not help. Fouad was a snivelling lackey who thought only about himself. It infuriated Armand that after all these years he could not depend on Fouad.
Enough money would buy him the right person to do the deed, but how to find that person? Would the Internet be of any help? No, probably not.
‘I said my feet are killing me,’ Annabelle repeated, wishing he was a little more attentive.
‘Take your shoes off,’ he suggested, stopping for a moment. ‘Bare feet can be quite sexual.’
‘Oh no,’ Annabelle mock-groaned, hoping to get at least a smile out of him. ‘Don’t tell me you have a foot fetish?’
‘Would that bother you?’ he asked, testing her.
Annabelle thought for a moment, then leaned up against him while she removed her spike heels. Foot fetish or not, she had him in her sights, and this time she was hanging in there.
Armand seized the opportunity to forcefully kiss her, his tongue darting into her mouth, while his hand reached down, making its way roughly up her skirt – heading for ground zero.
She was startled but still game – at least he was interested. This was her shot, and this time she had to make sure it worked out, for unfortunately she had big financial problems. Ever since publishing her somewhat scandalous book, her father had cut her off, so now money was not exactly falling out of the trees, which meant she needed a man like Armand Jordan to support her and give her credibility. Armand had everything she wanted. Money. Power. Status. And when he became the new owner of The Keys she would have her own personal playground to entertain her friends. What could be better?
‘Easy,’ she whispered, as his thick fingers negotiated a passage past her thong and into her pussy, which was not exactly wet and willing, but she could rally.
And why not? Armand Jordan was her major catch of the day.
* * *
Peggy elicited the help of a willing desk clerk, who for fifty bucks was only too happy to escort her on a golf-cart ride to Armand’s villa and then let her in with a pass-key. For who would suspect that this well-groomed woman, loaded with expensive jewellery, was anything other than the person she claimed to be? She’d told him she was Armand Jordan’s mother, and that she had to pick up some important papers from her son’s villa. He had no reason to doubt her.
‘Should I wait for you?’ the desk clerk asked.
‘That would be lovely,’ Peggy replied, not relishing the long walk back to the main hotel. ‘I’ll only be a minute or two.’
She entered the villa and was shocked to encounter two women of extremely dubious appearance. They were lolling around on high stools by the bar, drinking cocktails and smoking.
Luscious and Seducta were equally shocked to see Peggy.
‘Where is Armand?’ were the first words out of Peggy’s mouth.
‘Who?’ questioned Seducta, adjusting her mammoth breasts which were fighting to escape from a lime-green halter top that was several sizes too small.
Luscious, slightly quicker on the draw, said a fast, ‘He’s on his way. Who’re you?’
Peggy stood tall, trying to hide her dismay that this was the type of women her son was associating with. These women were certainly not ladies – they resembled cheap street hookers, the kind she’d observed acting the part on Law & Order.
‘I am Armand’s mother,’ Peggy said grandly, walking toward what she assumed was the bedroom.
‘Kinky,’ Seducta muttered.
‘Shh . . .’ Luscious admonished in a hoarse whisper.