Goddess of Vengeance - Jackie Collins [90]
Yes, an opportunity to get closer to the truth, and she was about to take it.
* * *
Settled into a private and secluded luxury villa at The Cavendish, Armand continued to rant and rave about how sickened and angry he was at the outcome of his meeting with Lucky Santangelo. That a woman could get away with speaking to him in such a crude and vile way was unthinkable. His skin crawled at the thought. Her words reverberated in his head and filled him with even more hate.
‘In my country she would be stoned to death for her disrespect,’ he screamed, pacing up and down. ‘I am a Prince. You hear me, Fouad? A royal man. She is nothing but a whore peasant, and she must be punished!’
Fouad stared at Armand, and realized that he was no longer a man in control; it seemed he had lost any sense of reality. Had Armand honestly believed that just like that he could fly into Vegas and purchase a property such as The Keys? Was he becoming so convinced of his own importance and power that he’d thought it was possible?
Ever since the incident with Martin Constantine’s wife, Fouad had sensed that there was something basically wrong with Armand. He appeared to be unravelling, caught up in a fantasy power trip of huge proportions. Now he was proclaiming himself a Prince – which of course he was – but his title meant nothing in America.
‘You do know,’ Armand shouted, fixing Fouad with a manic glare, ‘that one day I will rule Akramshar. I will be King.’
‘I thought your plan was to stay in America,’ Fouad said, quite shocked by Armand’s announcement.
‘My father will expect me to take over,’ Armand said, a feverish look in his eyes. ‘Do you think I would disappoint him? Because if you think that, you’re an idiot, a useless idiot.’ A slow beat before Armand added, ‘Lately, Fouad, I have been thinking I should rid myself of your useless existence.’
Once again Fouad was shocked. He’d grown up in Akramshar, the son of a palace guard, and he’d heard these slurs many times coming from the King. The word ‘useless’ was one of the King’s favourite insults; he used it on wives, workers, his children – anyone he felt deserved the wrath of his tongue. He spat it out like a snake’s venom, making it sound worse than any expletive.
Was Armand turning into his father?
Was he suffering from delusions of grandeur?
Did he honestly believe that when King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan died he could become ruler of Akramshar?
Impossible. The King’s other sons would never allow that to happen. Armand might have been born in Akramshar and lived there for all of eight years, but he had left the land of his birth and become a high-powered American business tycoon. He would never be accepted back. Fouad happened to know that the only reason the King paid Armand so much attention, was that through Armand’s various holdings and companies, he was able to filter money for the King, legitimize it. In America they called it laundering.
‘Get me everything you know about Lucky Santangelo,’ Armand suddenly ordered. ‘That file you had. Where is it? Give it to me at once.’
‘Do you mean the file you refused to pay attention to?’ Fouad said, unable to resist a small dig.
‘I want it now,’ Armand said brusquely. ‘Immediately.’
‘I will have it sent up.’
‘Disrespectful whore,’ Armand muttered. ‘She will pay dearly for daring to challenge me.’
Fouad couldn’t quite figure out how Armand had reached the conclusion that Lucky Santangelo had challenged him. She’d merely turned down his offer to buy The Keys. That was it. But obviously she’d triggered something in Armand that had set him on a revengeful path.
‘I should go,’ Fouad said evenly. ‘You need time alone.’
‘No. What I need is a couple of whores while I think about what to do,’ Armand raged, his face dark with anger. ‘Arrange it. I want them here immediately.’
Was this what things had come to – ordering up prostitutes for Armand’s perverse pleasure?
No. Enough was enough. Once again he refused to do it.
Moving over to the desk, he picked up a hotel notepad and wrote down a number.
‘Here,’ he said, handing the notepad