Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [64]
* * *
Armand chose to take Peggy, along with Fouad, to François, a restaurant he knew she’d approve of. Select and expensive, he needed to make Peggy happy and preferably drunk, for his dear mother was very fond of a bottle of wine. Give her enough, drop her off at her hotel, and she’d sleep it off.
How many times had he watched her do that when he was a kid? Too many to count. His mother, the drunk. Thank God for Sidney Dunn, who’d come along, married her, and taken the pressure off.
Now Sidney was gone, and did she honestly expect to latch onto him again?
Earlier he’d enjoyed himself with the whores, especially the black one. Women would do anything for money, he’d established that time and time again, and he had the videos to prove it. Two little whores at play. Another shining example to add to his extensive collection.
He stored his video discs labelled under certain categories:
Married Women
Whores
Single Women
Famous Women
Yes, he’d had a few famous women sniffing around all set to land their own personal billionaire – a pairing they imagined would up their pathetic profiles in the tawdry entertainment magazines.
The blonde with the penchant for jocks.
The anorexic brunette who swore she wasn’t anorexic.
The girl who’d written about her life as a Hollywood Princess.
The stupid blonde with the big boobs.
The drugged-out singing star with a major crack problem.
All one-nighters – his choice, not theirs. There wasn’t one of them that he’d care to conduct a repeat performance with.
The restaurant was full. His casino host had arranged the reservation.
Later he would gamble before being entertained by the three Texan blondes he’d ordered up for his midnight entertainment, for when it came to sex, Armand was a true voyeur, a connoisseur of the raw and raunchy.
‘I do not like this table,’ Peggy complained in a high voice. ‘Why are we not seated at a window table? I would prefer to sit somewhere with a view.’
Armand dispatched Fouad to deal with the situation. The restaurant was full, but a five-hundred-dollar tip to the maître d’ should certainly make the right table available.
After a few minutes a group at a well-situated window table got up to leave.
The maître d’ had probably told them to get the hell out, Armand thought, satisfied that money could get him anything he required.
‘You see?’ he informed his mother, with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ‘Your wish, and it is done.’
But Peggy wasn’t listening; her attention was fixed on the group who were making their way out.
‘What are you staring at?’ Armand demanded.
‘That old man,’ Peggy said, quite agitated. ‘I think I know him. Find out his name.’
Armand couldn’t help himself. ‘For God’s sake,’ he snapped, curling his lip. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
Peggy honoured him with an icy stare. ‘Too much trouble?’
Frowning, Armand turned to Fouad. ‘Do as she asks.’
It was at that exact moment Fouad decided the time had come to move on and extract himself from the toxic environment that Armand created. He had money, plenty of it. He had copies of most of Armand’s explicit sex tapes. And he’d had it being treated like some kind of lackey supposed to jump at his master’s bidding.
This was not Akramshar, this was America, and as soon as they returned to New York, he was out.
‘Certainly, Armand,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘I will deal with it immediately.’
* * *
The three blondes suited Armand just fine. Lithe and lovely with real breasts and mounds of pale pubic hair, they were exactly what he needed after a stupefyingly boring dinner with his mother. Peggy always put him on edge. She was the gift that kept on giving. Lately she’d started lecturing him about getting married and having children. Little did she know . . .
Exhibiting a rare flash of generosity, he’d invited Fouad to join him and the women. It infuriated him when Fouad declined. How stupid that Fouad remained faithful to his dreary American wife. What a fool.
The blondes did everything he asked. They fucked and sucked, did not object when he ordered them