Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [89]
Armand did not go silently. He threatened every staff member in the vicinity with expulsion the moment he owned the hotel. He had Fouad take down names and he let everyone know that they would soon all have no jobs. He radiated a dark cold fury.
Danny, hovering on the sidelines, was startled by the man’s level of lethal anger; he’d never witnessed such frightening rage.
Fouad had a limousine waiting downstairs. Once again he had assumed they would head straight to the airport – he’d even left a message for Peggy that they would be picking her up very shortly.
Armand had other ideas.
‘Do you honestly believe that I would run from here like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs?’ Armand said, enraged. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Are you brain-dead, Fouad? Do you not listen? Are you a complete fool?’
Yes, Fouad thought, I am a fool for continuing to put up with your endless verbal abuse. You contaminate everything you touch.
‘Get me the best they have at The Cavendish,’ Armand instructed, ‘and attempt to listen to me for once, Fouad.’ An ominous pause. ‘We are not leaving Las Vegas until I own The Keys. That whore bitch will not win. I will see her die before she gets the better of me. Do you understand me? I WILL SEE HER DIE.’
* * *
Many years ago, Peggy had decided that if she did discover who Armand’s real father was, she would never tell her son. Armand considered himself royal-born, and she refused to dispel the myth – if indeed it was a myth. If it turned out that he wasn’t the King’s son, the ramifications would be disastrous. And were the King to find out, who knew what he would do? The punishments in Akramshar were harsh, especially toward women. They included the ancient custom of stoning, and long spells in prison for nothing more than disrespecting a male.
Not that Peggy would ever consider going back, not under any circumstances. She’d made her life in America, and that’s exactly where she was staying. Maybe even in Vegas if she met the right man.
For a woman in her sixties – however great she looked – the pickings in New York were lacklustre. Old men with Viagra hard-ons required women in their thirties – and at a pinch, forties. So where did that leave her? In Vegas, with casinos full of rich gamblers who might appreciate an attractive redhead in her prime.
Well . . . maybe a tad past her prime, but so what?
After a leisurely breakfast, she visited the spa, where she allowed herself to be primped and pampered, while she wondered how it was going to be possible to get close enough to Gino Santangelo to obtain a DNA sample. She’d watched enough CSIs on TV to realize discovering paternity was not difficult. A scrap of hair, a cigarette stub – and there were labs advertised on the Internet where you could simply mail in your sample. She’d even found one in Vegas, which – for a price – promised a twenty-four-hour turnaround service.
Peggy was excited. She’d always wondered, and now it might be possible to find out.
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Gino Santangelo?’ she asked the tall brunette who was giving her a facial.
The girl almost choked. ‘Gino Santangelo is one of the most famous characters in Vegas,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘His daughter built this hotel. The Santangelos are Vegas royalty.’
‘Shh . . .’ hissed a bleached blonde, who was busy giving Peggy a pedicure. ‘His wife’s over there getting her nails done.’
‘His wife?’ Peggy said, her eyes darting across the room. She observed a short woman with a mass of frizzy copper-coloured hair and a compact body. The woman was well preserved, but Peggy – an expert at such things – decided she was in her late sixties.
Mrs Gino Santangelo. Perhaps this was the opportunity Peggy had been looking for.