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Loretta was cross that she didn’t feel as euphoric as she had imagined she would, inheriting a touch over 500 million dollars.
‘There will be nothing left to celebrate if that crazy bitch comes after my money,’ she thumped her ample chest with such a breathtaking sense of self-righteousness that even Randy was a little taken aback, and he’d certainly seen more than his fair share of avarice over the years. ‘You cannot let Muldavey take it away from me.’ Loretta held his gaze from across the desk as she expertly slipped back into her helpless little girl routine, the one men seemed to drink down like a particularly fine vintage Châteaux Margaux.
Randy cleared his throat and watched as Loretta crossed and uncrossed her slim, tanned legs in slow, deliberate movements. The woman was certainly no spring chicken, but then again, neither was he, and she was wearing incredibly well for her age, whatever that might be. It was difficult to tell, given all the work Ramsey had done on her.
‘Well,’ he said softly, enjoying the switch in her demeanour as it dawned upon him that this was probably a woman who would do anything to save her fortune. ‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. Let’s crack open that champagne,’ he grinned, the twitch inside his Armani slacks now a fully-fledged hard-on as he imagined her bent over his desk, skirt above her waist as he went at her like a jackhammer from behind.
Loretta smiled thinly as she surreptitiously opened the top button of her blouse.
‘You know, if you want my advice,’ Randy said, leaning back in his seat and trying to stop himself from imagining his bald head sandwiched between her impressive cleavage, ‘I would spend as much of that money as you possibly can, as quickly as you can. Invest in something; property, a legitimate business … the more you spend, the less there will be for her to take …’ Loretta pulled her chin into her chest, indignant.
‘Take? What do you mean, take?’
‘Not that this will happen, you understand …’ he added quickly, not wanting to spoil the upturn of her mood. ‘I’m just saying that if the worst did come to the worst, there are ways of protecting your assets.’
‘Go on …’ he had her interest now and this pleased him.
‘You could always transfer it all into someone else’s name. Someone you trusted, obviously, a family member, a lover perhaps … if it belonged to someone else, in name at least, then Muldavey could never make a claim on it.’ He paused for a moment to open the bottle of vintage Krug, decanting the amber bubbles into matching Tiffany flutes, adding, ‘I realise it’s far from ideal, but it would be one way of protecting your money.’
Loretta stifled a snort. The man was cazzaloca. She would rather cut out her own eyes. Besides, she trusted no one. Sometimes not even herself.
She had made that mistake once before, trusting a man who had managed to peel back her tough outer layers and uncover a softness beneath she had never even known existed; a man who had gone on to shatter her heart and destroy her faith in everything good. A man named Tom Black.
‘If I were you,’ Randy continued, a look of self-serving cheer creeping across his booze-bloated face, ‘I would take myself off somewhere. You know, have a holiday – a long one; I’m sure you deserve it. Why not charter that new jet of yours? Start ridding yourself of some of that cumbersome cash,’ he smirked broadly, displaying a set of yellow teeth. ‘Let me deal with Miranda Muldavey this end.’
Loretta visibly recoiled. She could smell his fetid breath from where she sat; a revolting mix of halitosis and cognac.
‘Do you know, Randy, I think you might be right,’ she smiled, genuinely this time. Randy had just given her a fantastic idea, and in doing so unwittingly blown any chances of her dropping to her hands and knees and pleasuring him under the desk in the process. ‘I will fly off somewhere; somewhere no one will find me. At least not without looking …’
Randy came from behind his desk to join her and she stood. Vertically challenged and about forty pounds overweight, he looked as if his suit had shrunk in the wash and Loretta wondered, incredulously, how anyone could manage to make bespoke Armani look so disgustingly cheap. She lunged forward and kissed him then, caught him clean off-guard, and he struggled to regain his composure as her long hot tongue played with his short wet one. She felt for his erection, only to be met with more disappointment. Pulling away from him sharply, Loretta suddenly snatched up the signed documents from the desk and stuffed them inside her Valentino clutch.
Randy looked at her, crestfallen. ‘But I thought …’
‘You thought what, Randy?’ she raised a dark, arched eyebrow at him that was sharp as a poisonous arrow and made him instantly lose his erection. ‘I would rather join my husband in the grave,’ she hissed, disgust dripping from her lips. ‘If Ramsey could see you now,’ she shook her head, slowly tutting with disapproval as her eyes swept the length of him.
Suitably rejected, Randy bristled.
‘You can save all the grieving widow crap for someone who buys it, lady. I know what an ageing, gold-digging piece of trash you are underneath all the plastic surgery.’
‘Sticks and stones, Randy, as the English say,’ Loretta cackled, checking her lipstick in her diamond-encrusted Dior compact before turning sharply to leave. Though he was right about one thing; she did need a holiday. Somewhere hot, somewhere fabulous and fun, somewhere she could embark upon the most epic shopping spree of her life without the press tracking her every move. She knew just the place.
CHAPTER 8
‘Where are you taking me?’ Ellie giggled girlishly as Vinnie guided her precariously along the narrow Soho street, his hands covering her eyes.
‘Not far now,’ he promised, barely able to contain his own excitement. ‘And no peeking!’ He knew his wife only too well.
‘Have you seen these heels?’ she protested, referring to the six-inch Pierre Hardy sandals she was wearing, squeezing his arm tightly in a bid to steady herself against the cobbles that were proving tricky to navigate. Vinnie laughed. It had not escaped his watchful eye that his wife had seemed a touch subdued over dinner tonight; it was the first time he had seen her genuinely smile all evening.
‘So then, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’ he’d eventually asked her, tentatively sipping a glass of the Chateau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996 wine he’d just ordered and watching as she had unenthusiastically picked at her plate of caviar, crab meat and lobster jelly.
Ellie had given a small smile. Her husband was such an intuitive man; he’d always been able to see straight through her like a pane of glass.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she’d apologised. She hadn’t meant to be so sombre, especially not tonight; she had wanted to show him how glad she was to have him home. ‘Ignore me, it’s nothing … I’m just a little worried about Tess, that’s all.’ It wasn’t a lie exactly; Ellie had heard from her daughter just once since she’d landed in Ibiza and she’d had to physically stop herself from phoning every five minutes to check up on her. But since she’d seen that damned photograph of Loretta Fiorentino in the newspaper, and then of course there was the collapse of the business venue weighing heavy on her shoulders …
Vinnie had looked at his wife from across the table. She looked so beautiful tonight; her long hair hung in loose waves around her smooth, naked shoulders and the dress she was wearing, a strapless black Helmut Lang number, off-set the shamrock green of her eyes and caressed her delicate curves, modestly displaying the swell of her breasts and décolletage. Even after all the years that had passed Ellie could still manage to stop his heart in its tracks.
‘Tess will be just fine,’ he’d reassured her. ‘She can take care of herself; she’s her mother’s daughter, remember? And, well, you know, she’s not a kid anymore. In fact, if I remember rightly, Mrs Scott,’ he’d taken her hand in his, lightly played with her delicate fingers for a few moments, ‘you were just a year or so older than Tess yourself when we met.’
Ellie had narrowed her eyes at him playfully, taking another generous gulp of the expensive wine, though it wasn’t quite taking the edge off her mood as she’d hoped.
‘That was different,’ she’d objected.
Vinnie had given a knowing smile.
‘I was more …’ She’d thrown her husband a thoughtful look, trying to find the word she was searching for.
‘… Streetwise?’
‘Yes! Streetwise.’
‘I remember,’ he’d said, eyebrows arching provocatively.
She’d jokingly pushed his arm away. ‘Anyway, I’ll still never know why you picked me that night out of all those beautiful girls …’
‘There were other girls?’ Vinnie had clutched his chest in faux-shock as he’d held her gaze from across the table.
There had been a big buzz at the Venus Club that night twenty-one years ago as Vinnie and his entourage had strolled through the door, all sharp suits and expensive-smelling cologne.
‘I want first dibs on this one,’ Mercury, a tall, skinny black stripper from Des Moines had firmly stated, applying a thick coat of plum-red lipstick, her third since clocking on. ‘He’s got Big Tipper tattooed on his ass and this black ass wants to get me some of that.’ As the girls had begun to bicker amongst themselves, each vying for the handsome stranger’s attention in the hope of making a good earn, Ellie had continued to dance, lost in the moment, imagining she was performing on stage with the Royal Ballet, just as she had done as a child. It enabled her to block out the reality of what she was doing; displaying her goods to sleazy men in a tawdry strip joint for a few dollars.
Yet still he had asked for her out of all the others.
‘The name’s Angel,’ she’d told him with a fixed smile, slipping into the booth opposite him. He had a handsome face, the look of a young George Clooney about him and something had instantly told her that this was no ordinary punter.
‘You don’t say,’ he’d replied, with a smile. Only, it wasn’t the kind of smile she was used to; the kind that belied those base thoughts underneath. It was a smile that had reached his sparkling blue eyes.
That night Ellie O’Connor had felt unusually self-conscious as she had begun to peel the straps of her tiny dress from her smooth, slim shoulders. She had actually wanted to put on a good show for the man in the sharp suit, had wanted him to find her attractive.
‘I’d just like to talk,’ he’d said softly, holding his hand up to prevent her from going any further, ‘if it’s all the same to you.’ As powerful and ruthless in the boardroom as Vincent Scott was, and ultimately attractive to women as a result, he had never been one for strip clubs and had only attended that night out of courtesy for his hosts.
Ellie was dumbfounded. This was a first; no one had ever paid for her to keep her clothes on before.
‘Suit yourself,’ she’d shrugged, yanking her bra straps back up. ‘It’s your money.’
And so they had just talked, and Ellie had learned that at thirty-six years old, sixteen years her senior, Vincent Scott was the eldest of three siblings born to wealthy, upper-class parents and had been brought up on an affluent country estate in Wiltshire, England.
By all accounts, Vincent, or Vinnie as he had insisted she call him, had been close to his father, a kind and loving man who had taught his eldest son to hunt, shoot and fish. When he’d died, some five years previously, Vinnie had taken over at the helm of his father’s property development business, Great Scott Properties. He’d been modest about his accomplishments; crediting great timing and the property boom of the late eighties for his subsequent global success. But Ellie sensed that underneath his soft veneer lay a steely determination. Inherited money or no, a man didn’t become a successful billionaire without an iron will.
‘But enough about me,’ he’d said, modestly. ‘Tell me, how does a young woman such a long way from home come to be working in a place like this?’
He had listened attentively as Ellie had recounted the story of how she had been just seven years old when her mother had upped sticks from the East End and followed her heart to Las Vegas.
‘I still miss it,’ she’d smiled a little ruefully, ‘London, I mean. It’ll always be home to me.’
‘And your mother?’ he’d enquired, watching as a deep sadness had seemed to descend upon her, dulling the brightness of her eyes. Ellie had shook her head as she’d thought of Charlene; she had often wondered what might have been had her mother never met Ray Black, for she was in no doubt that it was their tempestuous and abusive relationship that had led to her subsequent demise. The real tragedy was that in spite of everything – the gambling, the womanising and the drinking – Charlene O’Connor had truly loved ‘her Ray’. But it had been the worst kind of love; the kind that tore right through you like a cyclone, destroying everything good in its wake, and it had left her mother an empty shell of a woman; hard-faced and bitter, dependent on alcohol just to make it through the day.
‘So I’ve had to put my dreams of becoming a professional ballerina on hold for a while. Just until I make enough money to put myself through dance school and make ends meet, you know how it is?’ she’d casually explained, realising that he probably didn’t have the first idea. ‘Now that Tom’s no longer on the scene, I’ve got to look after myself, hence the reason I’m here,’ she’d looked around the low-lit club filled with drunken leering men with a resigned sigh.
‘Tom?’ he had quizzed her.
Even now Vinnie could recall the pause she had given, that she had looked down at her cheap stiletto-clad feet as if she hadn’t quite known how best to answer the question.
‘… Tom’s my … step-brother.’
Vinnie had left the Venus Club that night on a high of the like he’d never experienced before. On the surface he was incredibly modest, unassuming even, but it belied the sharp business mind and hard-nosed determination that lay at his very core. He was certainly no pushover, as some had learnt to their detriment, and he wasn’t the type to lose his heart without careful consideration, especially to a young stripper from the wrong side of the tracks. And yet on the night of July 18
, almost twenty-one years ago to the day; call it fate, destiny, or whatever you liked, he had made the decision that he could not leave Las Vegas without her …
*
‘Oh Vin,’ Ellie looked across the table at her husband with a deep fondness. He was older now, in his mid-fifties, his salt and pepper hair now more salt than pepper, and the faint lines around his eyes had turned into deep creases; years of laughter etched on his face like a timeline. She knew how lucky she was; Vinnie had taught her everything she knew. They had never had a cross word their entire marriage, and yet deep down Ellie had an instinctive fearfulness of her husband. There was another side to his gentle, caring nature, one that he kept hidden from her at all costs, but that she knew existed all the same. Vinnie had given her wealth and status of the like she had only ever been able to imagine; the chance to be somebody and make something of herself. She felt forever indebted to him because of it, and yet she had come so close to nearly losing it all …
It had been a mutual decision not to reveal to anyone the truth about Ellie’s former occupation. Not that Vinnie was ashamed; quite the opposite in fact, he had been proud of the way his young girlfriend had dealt with the hand she’d been given in life, but he was nobody’s fool; he had known how it would look. Beautiful young stripper meets older, billionaire businessman. By burying Ellie’s past, Vinnie had only ever wanted to protect her. After all, when they had married in a lavish ceremony in the lush grounds of his family’s Wiltshire estate some thirteen months later, people had whispered about the union between him and his lowly, if beautiful, secretary. Ha! If only they had known the real truth!
‘Ta-da!’ Vinnie dropped his hands from her eyes and stood back to survey her reaction.
It was dark now and the narrow cobbled Soho street was lit only by the rich amber glow of a singular streetlamp. Ellie blinked up at the dark, boarded-up building in front of her that she assumed was some kind of disused warehouse and wondered what exactly it was she should be looking at. ‘Number twelve Starling Street, W1; your new dance school …’ he announced with a theatrical wave.
Instinctively Ellie put a manicured hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
‘Now, before you say anything I want you to listen. You have to understand that a man of my, how shall I say, standing in the property business, gets to hear things on the grapevine …’
Ellie’s heart thumped against her ribcage.
‘So you already know about me losing the venue then?’ she had looked at him with a mix of indignant relief, ‘about those bastards gazumping me at the last moment?’
He put a finger to her lips to prevent her from continuing and felt the softness of them against his skin. ‘Ah, now none of that matters now,’ he reassured her, ‘what does matter is that we find you another venue, a better one; this one.’ He pulled her close to him and felt the warmth of her skin against his own.
‘We’re going to bid for it at auction next week, and we’re going to win it. So tell me, Mrs Scott, what do you think?’
Ellie kissed him then, small scattergun kisses over his clean-shaven face and then deeply, her tongue exploring his.
‘I think, Vinnie Scott,’ she breathed, ‘that you are the most wonderful husband in the world.’
CHAPTER 9
As much as she didn’t care to admit it, Allegra was feeling out of her depth. The pool party resembled a scene from a bad porn movie. There were naked girls everywhere; tanned bodies draped like mercury over blue and white striped sunbeds and couples openly having sex in the pool and on the terracotta patio outside. To her left she noticed a tall, naked brunette with shiny fake tits and tattoos willingly administering a blow job to some greasy-looking long-haired guy as another guy pumped away at her from behind, grinning manically as he frenziedly grabbed at her breasts for purchase. Allegra turned away in disgust, glancing over at a group of people brazenly snorting cocaine from a glass coffee table, dancing to the deafening sound of David Guetta like demented maniacs as they swigged from champagne bottles.
She nervously scanned the room for Tess. That shady Marco character had sequestered her off somewhere inside the sprawling hilltop villa, leaving Allegra to her own devices.
‘Hey hunny, wanna hit?’ a sinewy-looking black girl with the longest weave she’d ever seen held out a joint as she shimmied over. She was naked, save for a tiny fluorescent pink Pucci G-string that barely covered what little modesty she had left, and a pair of transparent, ridiculously high platform sandals, the like of which you could only buy in sex shops.
Allegra shook her head nervously. ‘Suit yourself,’ the girl had shrugged, kissing her teeth as she sauntered off towards some guy, collapsing on top of him, brazenly sliding her hand inside his boxer shorts and getting to work.
Allegra self-consciously pulled at her tiny designer denim mini skirt and wished she had worn her maxi dress instead. This was a bona fide fucking sex and drugs orgy; a world away from the occasional flash of G-string she’d indulged in after one too many cocktails at Funky Buddha on a Friday night back home – and it was scaring the shit out of her. She anxiously checked her iPhone. She would kill Tess for abandoning her like this. So much for fucking friendship. She’d been on her own for the past hour and a half, nervously fending off the unwanted attention of various freaks. Bloody Tess Scott … why did she always have to play the wild card?
As she made her way up the stone steps, discarding her cumbersome pair of patent Louboutins in haste, Allegra fought back the urge to burst into tears. In a moment of rare clarity she suddenly felt exactly what she was; a little girl playing at being a grown up and she wanted her daddy.
‘I’m looking for a girl …’ she stammered in a small, nervous voice to a guy who was propped up against the wall in the hallway, audibly dragging on a suspicious-looking cigarette, ‘long, dark blonde hair … white hot pants … Gucci bikini …?’
The pockmark-faced guy grinned, a horrible self-satisfied smirk that only served to accelerate Allegra’s rapidly burgeoning sense of unease. He thumbed the door behind him.
Shaking as she pushed past him, Allegra opened the door to the bedroom and instinctively put both hands up to her mouth to stifle a shocked scream. It was dark inside, the unremarkable room lit only by a small undetectable light source but it was enough to see that Tess, who was sprawled out across the bed, was completely naked save for a bottle of tequila in her hand, which she was proudly holding up like an Olympic torch. There was a guy on top of her, also naked, while another was knelt behind her, his erect cock visible as she giggled with delight, tequila spilling from her glossy lips. There was a third guy too, Allegra recognised him as Marco from the club, who appeared to be filming it all. He was shouting out words of encouragement, ‘yeah baby, you look so hot baby, ooh yeah, show us what you got …’
Stunned into silence, Allegra watched in horror as one of the three men grabbed a giant, obscene-looking dildo from a repertoire of sex toys on the bedside table.
Tess began to moan in pain or ecstasy, Allegra couldn’t be sure which. Her eyes were as wide as saucers. Jesus, was she on drugs?
Suddenly alerted to Allegra’s presence, the guys in the room all looked over in her direction.
‘Hey sweetheart,’ Marco acknowledged her, his voice a forced saccharine sweet, ‘you come to join in the fun?’
Paralysed to the spot, Allegra vigorously shook her head in the negative. Tess, seemingly oblivious, didn’t even look up.
Marco watched Allegra for a long moment, momentarily allowing the camera to drop to his waist, his dark, beady eyes boring terrifying holes into her.
‘Well, close the door on your way out then if you’re not staying, yeah?’ he snapped coldly before turning his back on her towards the action. ‘Come on guys, I wanna get this all in one take.’
Tearing through the villa like her life depended on it, Allegra finally found herself outside on the dusty road track where she ran, barefoot, sandals in hand, in the opposite direction of the villa. As the noise gradually faded and, deciding she was probably no longer in any imminent danger, Allegra collapsed against a small stone wall and slumped to the ground. Her heart was beating a song inside her chest and she struggled to catch her breath; she thought she might pass out. What the fuck did Tess think she was playing at having a gangbang with all those guys? And filming it too! Tess had always been a bit crazy but this time she’d taken it way too far. Stupid, selfish bitch. Yet as angry as Allegra was, a small voice inside her said that there had been something horribly wrong about the scene she’d just witnessed; something dark and sinister. Still, if Tess had been stupid enough to put any of that shit up her nose then as far as Allegra was concerned she deserved all she got.
With her fear gradually subsiding, Allegra started to relax a little, her thoughts beginning to take a new turn. Wiping her nose with the back of her shaking hand, she reached inside her Mulberry clutch bag for her phone.
‘Daddy!’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion as she finally broke down in tears, sobbing like a little girl. ‘Can you send a plane for me? I want to come home.’
As far as Allegra Kennedy-Ling was concerned, Tess Scott was on her own.
CHAPTER 10
Tom had been right about Candy; she was definitely a screamer in the sack.
‘Ohh yeah, baby! I’m almost there! Keep going … like that, yeah! Oh … ooooh …’
They’d been going at it ever since they’d checked into the penthouse suite at The Player, and she’d been ‘there’ at least twice already.
Tom looked down at the young woman bucking and squirming underneath him as he ploughed himself into her in long, slow strokes; her long blonde hair fanning the pillow like a yellow blanket as she laid it on a bit heavy with the vocals. She was very young and extremely sexy, yet he felt absolutely nothing as he blithely pumped himself inside her, running his hand over her toned stomach and shiny, albeit impressive, fake tits. Candy Wilson could hardly believe her luck. What had commenced as one of the shittiest days on record, getting fired from her deadbeat job at the diner by her asshole of a boss – strike that, ex-boss – had ended up here; in a luxury penthouse suite of a hotel in Las Vegas, Las fucking Vegas, with vintage champagne on tap and a rich, good-looking dude who was hung like a fucking horse and gave great oral. Jesus, the man’s tongue should come with a ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker. What’s more, he had promised to take her shopping in a limo later, maybe catch one of them fancy shows after a lobster and champagne dinner somewhere really posh. It was like something straight out of a frickin’ Julia Roberts movie! Life had been pretty shitty lately, Candy thought, what with the court case and a spell in the hospital thanks to those bastards she called parents. It looked as if things were finally beginning to go her way.
Candy had already sussed out that Tom had to be something of a high roller, simply by the unorthodox reaction they’d received upon arrival. The hotel staff had practically fallen over themselves to accommodate them in the penthouse suite – the frickin’ penthouse suite – it was at least ten times the size of her poky studio apartment back in LA and the soft furnishings were like something from one of those glossy interior magazines her mom was always reading; all gilt baroque gold mirrors, sumptuous Persian rugs, tactile suede couches, and a huge, gothic-looking bed with a ceiling mirror above it. Hel-lo Sin City!
