Lady Boss

  Praise for Jackie Collins

  ‘Sex, power and intrigue – no one does it better than Jackie’

  heat

  ‘A tantalising novel packed with power struggles, greed and sex. This is Collins at her finest’

  Closer

  ‘Bold, brash, whiplash fast – with a cast of venal rich kids, this is classic Jackie Collins’

  Marie Claire

  ‘Sex, money, power, murder, betrayal, true love – it’s all here in vintage Collins style. Collins’s plots are always a fabulously involved, intricate affair, and this does not disappoint’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Her style is pure escapism, her heroine’s strong and ambitious and her men, well, like the book, they’ll keep you up all night!’

  Company

  ‘A generation of women have learnt more about how to handle their men from Jackie’s books than from any kind of manual… Jackie is very much her own person: a total one off’

  Daily Mail

  ‘Jackie is still the queen of sexy stories. Perfect’

  OK!

  ‘Cancel all engagements, take the phone off the hook and indulge yourself’

  Mirror

  Also by Jackie Collins

  The Power Trip

  Goddess of Vengeance

  Poor Little Bitch Girl

  Married Lovers

  Drop Dead Beautiful

  Lovers & Players

  Hollywood Divorces

  Deadly Embrace

  Hollywood Wives: The New Generation

  Lethal Seduction

  Dangerous Kiss

  L.A. Connections

  Thrill!

  Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge

  Hollywood Kids

  American Star

  Lady Boss

  Rock Star

  Hollywood Husbands

  Lucky

  Hollywood Wives

  The Bitch

  Lovers and Gamblers

  The World Is Full of Divorced Women

  The Love Killers (British title: Lovehead)

  Sinners

  The Stud

  The World Is Full of Married Men

  JACKIE COLLINS

  LADY BOSS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  LADY BOSS. Copyright © 1990, 2013 Chances, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or part, in any form.

  The right of Jackie Collins to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  ISBN 978-0-9857459-9-8 (eBook)

  A CIP catalogue record for the print version of this book is available from the British Library

  Cover design by Kim Koehler; [email protected]

  eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  Visit Jackie at her website www.jackiecollins.com and follow her on

  Twitter: @jackiejcollins

  Facebook: facebook.com/jackiecollins

  Pinterest: pinterest.com/jackiejcollins

  For Tracy, Tiffany and Rory

  Girls can do anything!

  Prologue

  September 1985

  ‘Kill her,’ the voice said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lucky Santangelo, that’s who.’

  ‘It’s as good as done.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don’t worry – the lady is already dead.’

  Chapter 1

  From the very beginning they were destined to be a lethal combination – Lucky Santangelo and Lennie Golden. Two stubborn, crazy, smart people.

  Lennie was tall and lanky, with dirty-blond hair and ocean-green eyes. He was good-looking in an edgy offhand way. Women loved his looks. At thirty-seven, he’d finally made it as a movie star. He was the new breed – a comedian of the Eddie Murphy/Chevy Chase school. Cynical and funny, his films made big bucks – the bottom line in Hollywood.

  Lucky Santangelo Richmond Stanislopoulos Golden was the thrice-married daughter of the infamous Gino Santangelo. At thirty-six, she was darkly, exotically beautiful, with a tangle of wild jet curls, dangerous black eyes, smooth olive skin, a full sensual mouth, and a slim body. She was a fiercely independent, strong-willed woman who never compromised and always took chances.

  Together they were like charged electricity.

  They’d been married for over a year, and both looked forward to their second wedding anniversary in September with a mixture of delight and amazement. Delight, because they loved each other very much. Amazement, because who would ever have thought it would last?

  Currently Lennie was in Los Angeles shooting Macho Man for Panther Studios. The film was a comedy take-off on all the Hollywood super-heroes – Eastwood, Stallone, and Schwarzenegger.

  They’d rented a beach house in Malibu, but while Lennie was filming, Lucky chose to stay in New York where she headed a billion-dollar shipping company – left to her by her second husband, Dimitri Stanislopoulos. She also wanted Bobby, her six-and-a-half-year-old son by Dimitri, to be educated in England, and being in New York meant she was closer to his English school.

  On most weekends she either visited Bobby in London or Lennie in Los Angeles. ‘My life is one long plane ride,’ she joked ruefully to friends. But everyone knew Lucky thrived on activity, and to sit by Lennie’s side playing movie star’s wife would have bored her. As it was they had a volatile and passionate marriage.

  Macho Man was causing Lennie nothing but problems. Every night he called Lucky with a litany of complaints. She listened patiently while he told her the producer was a jerk, the director a has-been lush, his leading lady was sharing her bed with the producer, and Panther Studios was run by money-mad grafters; he wanted out.

  Lucky listened, smiling to herself. She was working on a deal that, if all went according to plan, would free him from the restrictions of answering to a director he didn’t respect, a producer he loathed, and a studio run by people he never planned to do business with again – even though he’d foolishly, against her advice, signed a three-picture contract with Panther.

  ‘I’m about ready to walk,’ he threatened for the hundredth time.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, attempting to soothe him.

  ‘I can’t make it with these assholes,’ he groaned.

  ‘Those assholes can sue you for a fortune. And stop you working elsewhere,’ she added, the perfect voice of reason.

  ‘Fuck ’em!’ he replied recklessly.

  ‘Don’t do anything until I get out there,’ she warned. ‘Promise me that.’

  ‘When, for chrissakes? I’m beginning to feel like a virgin.’

  A throaty chuckle. ‘Hmm… I didn’t know you had that good a memory!’

  ‘Hurry it up, Lucky. I really miss you.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll be there sooner than you think,’ she said mysteriously.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll recognize me,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m the guy with the permanent hard-on.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Still smiling, she replaced the receiver.

  Lennie Golden would be shocked and delighted when he found out her surprise. And when he did, she planned to be right there next to him, ready to enjoy the expression on his face.

  * * *

  Once he had put the phone down Lennie felt restless. His wife was the most exciting woman in the world, but – damn it – she pissed him off. Why couldn’t she say – Lennie, if things are tough, I’ll be right there? Why couldn’t she forget everything else and be with him?

  Lucky Santangelo. Drop-dea
d gorgeous. Strong. Determined. Enormously rich. And too independent.

  Lucky Santangelo. His wife.

  Sometimes it all seemed like a fantasy – their marriage, his career, everything. Six years ago he’d been just another comedian looking to score a gig, a few bucks, anything going.

  Lennie Golden. Son of crusty old Jack Golden, a stand-up Vegas hack, and the unstoppable Alice – or ‘Alice the Swizzle’ as his mother was known in her heyday as a ‘now you see ’em – now you don’t’ Las Vegas stripper. He’d split for New York when he was seventeen and made it all the way without any help from his folks. His father was long dead, but Alice was still around. Sixty-five years old and frisky as an over-bleached starlet, Alice Golden was caught in a time warp. She had never come to terms with getting older, and the only reason she acknowledged Lennie as her son was that he was famous. ‘I was a child bride,’ she’d simper to anyone who’d listen, batting her fake lashes and curling her overpainted lips in a lascivious leer. ‘I gave birth to Lennie when I was twelve!’

  Lennie had bought her a small house in Sherman Oaks. She wasn’t thrilled at being shunted out to the Valley, but what could she do? Alice Golden lived with the dream that one day she’d be a star herself, and then – as far as she was concerned – they could all watch out.

  ‘You’re wanted on the set, Mr. Golden,’ said Cristi, the second assistant, appearing at the door of his trailer.

  Cristi was a natural California blonde, with an earnest expression and extra-long legs encased in patched dungarees. Lennie knew she was a natural blonde because Joey Firello, his friend and cohort in Macho Man, had been there, and when it came to women Joey had a notoriously big mouth. Not to mention a notoriously big dick – which he’d affectionately christened Joey Senior.

  Lennie never double-taked anyone anymore. Since Lucky had entered his life he couldn’t even be bothered to look, and he really didn’t appreciate Joey giving him a rundown of the sexual habits of every female on the set. ‘You’re just jealous, man,’ Joey had laughed when he’d complained. ‘Out of action an’ gettin’ no action, huh?’

  Lennie had merely shaken his head with a ‘Why don’t you grow up’ expression. Once he’d been a serious cocksman. If it’s blonde and it moves – nail it had been his motto. For years he’d explored every possibility, managing to avoid any lasting commitments.

  Along the way there’d been a few women who’d left their mark. Eden Antonio for one.

  Ah, Eden, he thought ruefully. She was something else, a real operator.

  Poor Eden. In spite of all her dreams she’d ended up living with a vicious mobster who’d used her in a series of porno movies. Not exactly the future she’d planned for herself.

  And then there was Olympia. He’d married the plump, spoilt shipping heiress because he felt sorry for her – and stayed because it never got any easier. Unfortunately, even he was unable to save Olympia from her own excesses. Eventually she and spaced-out rock star Flash overdosed in a sleazy New York hotel, and Lennie was a free man.

  Now he had Lucky and life didn’t get any better.

  Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the dresser, he said, ‘OK, Cristi, I’m on my way.’

  The girl nodded thankfully, earnest expression firmly in place. This was not an easy movie to work on, and any cooperation at all was a definite plus.

  On the set Joey Firello was arguing with the old-time director, Grudge Freeport, about the next scene. Grudge wore a bad rug and chewed tobacco – spitting great gobs of it indiscriminately wherever he pleased. As usual he was almost drunk.

  Marisa Birch, Lennie’s leading lady, who doubled as the producer’s girlfriend, leaned against a slant board idly picking her cuticles. She was a startling-looking woman, six feet tall with spiky silver hair and frighteningly huge silicone breasts – a present from her former husband, who hadn’t considered thirty-six inches enough. Marisa was a terrible actress, and as far as Lennie was concerned she was helping to ruin the movie in a big way.

  Macho Man, he thought sourly, a comedy destined to be dead on arrival at the box-office – in spite of his presence. His other movies had been hits; now he was stuck in a real disaster waiting to happen and there was nothing he could do about it. The trouble was he’d been dazzled by the astronomical amount of money Mickey Stolli, the head of Panther Studios, had offered him – and like a greedy fool he’d gone ahead and made another three-picture commitment.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Lucky had warned him. ‘The lawyers only just got you out of your other deal, and now you’re tying yourself up again. When are you going to learn? I’m telling you – keep your options open, it’s more of a challenge.’

  Sure, his wife loved a challenge. The trouble was he couldn’t resist the lure of mega-bucks – and mega-bucks put him one step nearer to his wife’s unbeatable fortune.

  Oh yeah, he knew he should have listened to Lucky – she had the Santangelo knack of knowing all the right moves and when to make them. Her father, Gino, had parlayed himself up from nothing. The old guy had style and Lennie admired him. But what the hell – big bucks were big bucks, and he never wanted to be the poor relation.

  Fortunately, they were back in the studio shooting interiors. The week before, they’d been on location in the rugged Santa Monica mountains – a real pain. And coming right up was a five-week location shoot in Acapulco.

  With a sigh he entered the fray.

  Marisa puckered up luscious, swollen lips and blew him a kiss. She’d been after him from their first meeting. He’d managed to remain totally uninterested. Even if he hadn’t had Lucky, he’d never been turned on by silicone.

  ‘Hi, Lennie, cookie,’ she crooned, erect nipples straining in his direction.

  Shit! Another fun day at the studio.

  * * *

  Lucky hurried from the tall chrome and glass building on Park Avenue that still bore the Stanislopoulos name. She had no desire to change it. One day everything would belong to her son Bobby and Dimitri’s granddaughter, Brigette, so the name stayed.

  Lucky was extremely fond of Brigette. The seventeen-year-old reminded her of Olympia, the girl’s mother, at the same age. Olympia and Lucky had once been close friends; but that was long ago and far away and a lot had happened since their out-of-control teenage years when they’d been at boarding school in Switzerland and ended up getting expelled.

  When Olympia had died so tragically young, Lucky was sad, even though Olympia’s death had finally released Lennie – who was married to her at the time – from a lifetime of unwanted responsibility.

  Occasionally she’d felt guilty that everything had worked out so well – but what the hell, that was life, and hers hadn’t exactly been a day at the beach. At the age of five she’d discovered her mother’s body floating in the family swimming pool. Then years later, Marco, her first love, was gunned down in the parking lot of the Magiriano Hotel. Shortly after, Dario, her brother, was shot to death. Three tragic murders.

  Lucky had taken her revenge. She was a Santangelo, after all. Don’t fuck with a Santangelo. The family motto.

  As soon as she walked out of the building she spotted Boogie lounging against the side of the dark green Mercedes. He leapt to attention when he saw his boss striding purposefully towards him and quickly threw open the passenger door.

  Boogie was her driver, bodyguard, and friend. They’d been together for many years and his loyalty was unquestioning. He was long-haired, tall, and skinny, with an uncanny ability to be there whenever she needed him. Boogie knew her better than almost anyone.

  ‘The airport,’ she said, sliding onto the front seat.

  ‘Are we in a hurry?’ he asked.

  Lucky’s black eyes flickered with amusement. ‘We’re always in a hurry,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t that what life’s all about?’

  Chapter 2

  When Gino Santangelo took his morning constitutional he invariably followed the same route. Straight out of his apartment building on Sixty-fourth Street. Across Park
to Lexington. And then a brisk walk along Lexington for several blocks.

  He enjoyed his routine. At seven a.m. the streets of New York were not crowded, and in the early hours the weather was usually bearable.

  He always stopped for a Danish at his favourite coffee shop, then picked up a newspaper from the corner vendor.

  As far as Gino was concerned this was the most pleasurable hour of his day – except when Paige Wheeler visited from Los Angeles, which was not as often as he would have liked.

  When Paige came into town his morning stroll was put on hold while he spent lazy mornings with her rolling around on his comfortable double bed. Not bad for an old man in his seventies. Suffice it to say, Paige brought out the best in him.

  God damn it, he loved the woman, even though she still steadfastly refused to leave her producer husband of twenty years.

  For a long time he’d been asking her to get a divorce. For some unknown reason she wouldn’t do it. ‘It would destroy Ryder if I wasn’t around,’ she’d said simply, as if that was explanation enough.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Gino had exploded. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re strong,’ Paige had replied. ‘You can survive without me. Ryder would crumble.’

  My ass he’d crumble, Gino thought to himself as he walked along the street. Ryder Wheeler was one of the most successful independent producers in Hollywood. If Paige dumped him, he’d jump the nearest bimbo and that would be that.

  What made Paige think she was so goddamn indispensable? To Gino she was indispensable. To Ryder she was just a wife he’d had for twenty years. The guy would probably pay for his freedom.

  Gino had seriously thought about sending in a third party to plead his case. Offer Ryder a million bucks and goodbye schmuck.

  Unfortunately, in the last eighteen months Ryder Wheeler had fathered two movie mega-hits and had no need of anyone’s money. The jerk was shovelling it in.

  ‘Screw the son of a bitch,’ Gino muttered aloud, well aware of the fact that he was not getting any younger and he wanted Paige by his side permanently.