Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [35]
‘Poor you.’
‘Got on a plane early this morning, and I just landed in New York.’ A beat. ‘But never mind about me. How are you?’
‘Lonely.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Missing you.’
‘Even better.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Thursday night. Then Friday we’ll fly to Vegas. Please tell me you’re saying yes.’
Alternatives. Visiting Sam on a movie set. Attending a cop barbecue with Leon. Seems like no contest. ‘I’m saying yes, Bobby,’ she said softly.
‘That’s my girl. I’ll call you later. Have a good one.’
* * *
Checking out a couple of gossip sites on his computer, Frankie was delighted to find several shots of himself and Cookie leaning all over each other at River. She looked hot, kind of like a young Janet Jackson.
He quickly scanned the copy:
Eighteen-year-old Cookie, daughter of soul-icon Gerald M., getting this close with her new boyfriend, Frankie Romano, at his club, River.
Perfect! Exactly what he’d planned. He’d given access to a paparazzi who’d gotten the shots in the club, and then sold them. Of course, Rick Greco would be pissed that they’d called River his club, but hey – he was the front man, he was the one bringing the crowd in. Yeah! They all loved Frankie Romano. He knew how to satisfy everyone’s decadent cravings. Nothing bad about that.
Unbeknownst to Rick, he had a secret to assuring happy repeat customers, and that secret was a lucrative drug business he ran on the side. Coke, pills, ecstasy, crystal meth, pot. You name it, Frankie could supply it. His rich and famous customers loved the convenience of having a virtual pharmacy at their disposal. Frankie had all his connections down, and now he was starting to make real money.
Too bad Rick hadn’t made him a full partner; he might’ve considered sharing.
Chapter Thirteen
After spending some time with his father, who was resting before the next day’s wildly extravagant birthday festivities, Armand returned to his palace and the family he had not yet seen.
This time Soraya was waiting to greet him. They had been married for eleven years, and he had to admit that from the fifteen-year-old girl he’d wed, Soraya had turned into a striking woman. She was tall and slender, with a sweep of long straight black hair and large sad eyes. Her body was covered by the traditional burqa.
He found himself wondering what this woman he hardly knew would look like in Western clothes, and if – when he wasn’t around – she actually wore them. The truth was he didn’t care, even though she had given birth to four children – his children.
Soraya rarely spoke when she was in his presence, and only answered him when he directed a question at her.
‘Where is Tariq?’ he asked, naming his only son.
‘I will fetch him if you wish,’ Soraya replied.
He’d noticed that she never looked him directly in the eyes. She avoided any kind of contact, including physical. He’d stopped sleeping with her several visits ago. He had no desire for yet another daughter, and it seemed that every time he touched her she ended up pregnant. Not that sleeping with her gave him any enjoyment. The few times he’d had sex with her she’d lain beneath him like a stone statue, unmoving and unresponsive.
So be it. There were many women who would do anything he requested – no request too bizarre. Only yesterday in London he’d had two women crawling around his suite on all fours wearing leather dog collars, serving him dinner and then pleasuring each other for his amusement, while he sat back and snorted coke until he got bored and sent the whores away.
Soraya left the room and returned with Tariq, a tall skinny boy of eleven. The boy was clad in an American Lakers T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
Armand was incensed. ‘Why is Tariq dressed like this?’ he demanded. ‘It is disrespectful to me. Have him change immediately.’
‘Yes,’ Soraya murmured, shooing her son from the room.
‘When I come here,’ Armand said, his voice a