Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [126]
‘Take your clothes off and keep your mouths shut,’ Armand ordered. ‘Do it now.’
And without waiting for a reply, he turned to Annabelle and once again stuck his hand roughly up her skirt.
She automatically pushed his hand away. This was all happening too fast.
‘More champagne, please,’ she said, trying to appear cool in the face of such disturbing circumstances.
‘I’ll offer you better than that,’ he said, marching into the bedroom and returning with several small glassine bags of cocaine.
‘Shall we?’ he said, walking toward the glass-topped coffee table.
Damn! Annabelle thought. Another Frankie Romano scene. I sure can pick ’em.
Meanwhile the two hookers were disrobing in a desultory fashion across the room, flinging their clothes in a corner until they were bare-assed naked except for their shoes. Then they hovered, waiting for instructions.
By this time Armand was alternating swigging champagne and snorting lines, feeling no pain, feeling as if he could take control of the entire world. And he would. When he’d disposed of Lucky Santangelo, there would be no one to stop him.
On his alcohol- and cocaine-fuelled high, Armand was becoming more and more determined that Lucky had to be . . . what was the word that lingered in his mind? Ah yes – assassinated.
The word thrilled him, it revolved in his brain like a mantra. The whore bitch deserved to die. And he would be the one to make it happen.
If they were in Akramshar he could arrange to have her stoned to death. Buried in the ground up to her neck while big jagged rocks were thrown at her until she died a painful and slow death. Unfortunately that wasn’t possible in America. What a shame, because Lucky Santangelo was the slut whore of all women, who deserved many punishments.
Lucky was his dear mother pushing her breasts up against him when he was a child, before beating him with a leather strap while her friends looked on.
Lucky was all the whores he’d ever had sex with, the dirty, filthy, disgusting, money-hungry whores.
Lucky was his dumb wife who’d given birth to children he’d never wanted.
Oh yes, Lucky Santangelo was the woman who deserved to be punished for all of them.
It was only fitting.
And when she was gone, The Keys would be all his, and life would finally be perfect.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The moment Lucky spotted Alex entering the club with an attractive Asian girl on his arm, was the moment she decided it was time for her and Lennie to split. By this late hour she knew that Alex would’ve had quite a few drinks, and when Alex had been drinking, anything could happen, so she figured it was wise to get out while the going was good.
But Lennie had other ideas. He wanted to stay.
Lucky knew better than to try and change his mind. Like herself, Lennie did what he wanted, and he wouldn’t budge until he was ready to leave.
He and Alex had an edgy relationship filled with macho posturing, for not only did they both have a thing about Lucky, but it didn’t help that they were both director/producer/writers. Not that they were in competition with each other. Lennie made low-budget independent movies, while Alex went the studio route and put together big high-profile movies – usually controversial and generally critically savaged or acclaimed, depending on the critic. The fact that they both did the same thing always made it interesting. They argued all the time – about other people’s movies, politics, books, sports, anything they could think of.
Lennie was well aware of how Alex felt about his wife, but he did not possess the knowledge that once, long ago, during the time he’d been kidnapped and Lucky had thought he was dead, she’d actually slept with Alex. One time. One time only. Alex had never forgotten their one night together. Lucky had tried to put it behind her. In her mind it was a regrettable mistake.
‘There you all are,’ Alex said, walking straight over to their cabana, the pretty Asian girl trotting behind him. ‘Can we join?’
‘Sit right down,’ Lennie said, making a magnanimous gesture. ‘Room for