Lucky (Tie-in) TV - Couverture souple

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0671638459 ISBN 13 : 9780671638450

Editeur : Pocket

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Chapter One:

Lennie Golden had not set foot in Vegas for thirteen years, even though it
was the city of his conception, birth and first seventeen years of life.

He looked around as he stepped off the plane, sniffed the air and took a deep
breath. The place still smelled the same.

The airport was doing a roaring trade in visiting gamblers, tourists and middle
America out to have fun. Fat male butts waddled alongside plump, peroxide
ladies in polyester pant suits and fake jewelry. Small children whined and
complained. Traveling hookers in halter tops, hot pants tightly outlining their
crotches, arrived to do business. Swarthy foreigners clutched black leather
attaché cases and breathed garlic over their accompanying yellow-haired
mistresses.

Jess was there to meet him. Five feet tall, startlingly pretty, she still had
the air of a tomboy about her -- which is what she had been at school. She had
always preferred to hang out with the boys. Especially Lennie. They had been
best friends since first grade, their somewhat unexpected and platonic
relationship surviving and getting stronger each year -- even though they didn't
see much of each other since he had moved from Vegas to New York.

They made an ill-assorted couple. Lennie, so tall and lanky, with dirty-blond
hair and ocean-green eyes. An overgrown Robert Redford with more than a touch
of Chevy Chase. And Jess, petite and wide-eyed, with a mop of orange hair,
freckles and a Playboy centerfold body in miniature.

She hurled herself into his arms. "It's so good to see you! You look
fantastic. For a guy who spends his life screwin' around I don't know how you
do it."

"Hey --" He swung her in the air like a rag doll. "Look who's taking."

She giggled and hugged him tightly. "I love you madly, Lennie Golden. Welcome
back."

"I love you too, monkey face."

"Don't call me that!" she screeched. "I'm married now. I'm respectable. I got a
kid, the whole bit. So c'mon, Lennie -- treat me like a lady."

He burst out laughing. "If you're a lady, I'm Raquel Welch."

She grabbed his arm. "You got great tits!"

Laughingly they strolled toward the exit.

"So how was the flight?" she asked, trying to grab his battered suitcase.

He wrestled it away from her. "Long and boring. If God had meant us to fly he'd
have given us more stewardesses.

"Didja score?" She winked knowingly.

"Affirmative."

"Really?"

"Would I lie to you?" he deadpanned.

She laughed She had a maniacal guffaw that caused people to turn and stare.
"You'd lie to the Pope if you thought it would get you through the day."

"And there she goes..." he singsonged.

"Who? Where?" Automatically she turned to check out his conquest. A nun walked
serenely by.

"I told you my tastes are changing," he said gravely.

"Very funny!" She aimed a punch at his stomach. He held up a protesting hand.
"Lay off. I just had surgery of the tongue."

"Huh?"

"Remember the taping of the 'Lee Bryant Show'? The one I told you I was
doing?"

"Yeah."

"They cut my four-minute spot to thirty seconds. If you fart you miss me."

She frowned. "Schmucks. They know from nothin'. Anyway, you're back in Vegas
now. Your kind of comedy schtick's gonna kill 'em here."

"Oh sure, in the lounge of the Magiriano Hotel I'm really going to cause a
riot."

"It's a change of scene. Could be just what you need. Who knows what
it'll lead to?"

"C'mon, less. You sound like my agent. Do this shit, that piece of crap, and
before you know it you'll have a regular spot on Carson."

"Your so-called agent is a New York jerk-off artist." She wrinkled her nose.
"You're a great comedian. I should be handling you. I mean, I got
you this gig, didn't I?"

"What do you want -- ten percent?"

She laughed wildly. "You think I wanna give up the title of best blackjack
dealer in Vegas? You think I'm crazy or somein'? Stick your commission where
the sun don't give you a tan!"

They were passing a ladies room. "Wait a sec," she said. "I'm so excited to see
you I gotta take a pee."

He laughed and leaned against the wall while she dashed inside. Jess was a
friend indeed. He had called her two weeks ago and said he had to get out of
New York.

"No problem," she replied without hesitation. "Matt Traynor, the entertainment
director of the hotel I work at, has the hots for me. Send me a tape and I'll
get him to hire you."

He had sent the tape. She had come through with the gig. Some good friend.

Idly he watched a dark-haired girl in black leather pants and a red shirt
stride by. She cut through the crowd as if she owned the place. He liked her
style, not to mention her body.

Jesus! Was he free yet? He and Eden had split six months ago, yet every time he
saw an attractive woman he couldn't help comparing the two. He was still doing
it. Eden Antonio and he were unfinished business -- why didn't he just face
it?

Jess emerged from the ladies room and squeezed his hand. "It is sooo
great to have you here," she said. "I want to hear all about
everything."

"Hey -- everything is a career going nowhere and a fucked up sex life."

"Sounds exciting. So what else is new?"

They were outside now and the desert heat enveloped them.

"Jeez!" he exclaimed. "I forgot how hot it is here."

"Aw, stop bitching. You could do with a tan. You look like Nightclub
Charlie."

They approached a dented red Camaro waiting in the parking lot.

"I see you're still an ace driver," he remarked dryly, throwing his suitcase in
the trunk.

"I didn't do that," she replied indignantly. "My old man can't drive
around the block without gettin' into trouble."

He wondered what kind of man took on crazy Jess for a wife. Someone special, he
hoped.

"C'mon," she said, sliding behind the steering wheel "Wayland is makin' lunch.
The baby's makin' noise, and Lennie, you are gonna love it
here. It always was your kinda town."

He nodded grimly. "Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."

Lucky Santangelo stood out as she strode briskly through the crowd at the
airport. She was a strikingly beautiful woman of twenty-eight with an unruly
mass of jet curls, black gypsy eyes, a wide sensual month, a deep suntan and a
lean, looselimbed body. She wore soft, black, leather pants, a red, silk shirt
casually unbuttoned to the limit, and a wide belt studded with silver. From
her ears hung plain, silver hoops and on her right hand was a square-cut diamond
of such size and brilliance that one would be forgiven for thinking it was not
real. It was.

No conventional beauty, she had a style and bearing all her own. Confidence
wafted from her like the exotic scent she drenched herself with.

"Hey, Boogie." With affection she greeted the skinny, long-haired man in
army fatigues who stepped forward to greet her. "How's everything?"

"The same," he said, low-voiced, his slit eyes darting this way and that,
observing everyone and everything as he took her black leather tote bag and the
check claim for the rest of her luggage

"No exciting news? No gossip?" she questioned, grinning, delighted to be
back.

He had gossip, but he didn't want to be the one to give it to her.

She talked excitedly as they walked toward the stretch, Mercedes limousine
parked on a red line.

"I think I put it all together, Boog. The Atlantic City deal is ready to fly.
And I did it. Me! All I need is an okay from Gino and the record'll spin. I
feel great!"

He was pleased to see her in such a good mood. He nodded and said, "If you want
it you'll get it. I never doubted you."

Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Atlantic City," she said. "We'll build a
hotel to beat everything!"

"You'll do it," he agreed, opening up the rear door.

"Hey," she complained, "you know I always sit up front with you."

He switched doors, settled her in the passenger seat and loped off to get the
rest of the baggage.

Gino Santangelo awoke with a start. For a moment he was disoriented, but only
for a moment. He might be old, but he certainly wasn't senile, thank God.
Besides, seventy-two nowadays was not exactly fertilizing-oranges time. In
fact, last night in bed, he had felt like a kid again. And why not, with Susan
Martino for company?

Susan Martino. Widow of the late, great Tiny Martino, a multitalented veteran
of television and the movies. A comedian whose name ranked alongside Keaton,
Chaplin and Benny. Tiny had died of a stroke two years previously. Gino had
attended the funeral in Los Angeles, conveyed his respects to the widow-and had
not seen her again until she turned up in Vegas three weeks ago at a charity
benefit. Now he was waking up in her bed for the fifth morning in a row, and
feeling no pain.

As if she knew he was thinking sweet thoughts about her, Susan
entered the room. She was an attractive, well-groomed woman of
forty-nine, who looked at least ten years younger. Her eyes were pale china
blue, cheekbones high, skin white and smooth. Her silver-blond hair was neatly
drawn back in a chignon, even though it was only nine in the morning. She wore
a white silk peignoir over her understated but perfect body, and she carried a
tray with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a soft-boiled egg, and two
pieces of lightly buttered toast cut into thin slices.

"Good morning, Gino," she said.

He struggled to sit up, pushing his hands through his unruly black hair, which,
although graying at the temples, was just as thick and curly as it had been in
his youth. He was still a man to be reckoned with. Age had by no means dulled
his vitality and ceaseless energy, although a nearly fatal heart attack a year
ago had slowed him down a mite. Like Susan, he did not look his age.

"What's all this?" He indicated the laden tray.

"Breakfast in bed."

"And what did I do to deserve it?"

She smiled. "What didn't you do."

He grinned, remembering. "Yeah. Not bad for an old man, huh?"

She placed the tray in front of him and sat on the edge of the bed. "You're the
best lover I ever had," she said gravely.

He liked that. He liked it a lot. Susan Martino was no tramp, but she'd had a
reputation of sorts before marrying Tiny Martino twenty-five years earlier. Aly
Khan, Rubirosa, even Sinatra were rumored to be in her past. Enough for Gino to
feel more than flattered by her compliment.

Not, of course, that he had ever questioned her about her past, just as she had
never asked him about his.

"I wanna know somethin'," he said, interested enough now to start finding
out.

"What?" she replied, carefully peeling the shell from his egg.

"When you were married to Tiny -- you ever cheat around?" She did not hesitate.
"Never," she replied firmly. "Although why I should tell you . . .

He suddenly felt possessive of this woman. This classy blond lady. And how many
of them were there around today?

Women. Love 'em and leave 'em had been his life's motto. With very few
exceptions. In the last year, taking them to bed had become boring. Another
body. Another pretty face. Another thousand-dollar bill for a trinket because
he didn't like to dismiss them empty-handed. When they left Gino Santangelo's
bed he wanted them to know they had been somewhere. Not that he had to
pay. Ever. The very thought was crazy.

"Can we spend the day together?" Susan asked, dipping a sliver of toast into
the egg and feeding it to him.

He was just about to say yes when he remembered. Lucky was coming back today.
His daughter. Beautiful, wild Lucky -- with his eyes and his deep olive skin
and his jet hair and his zest for living. How could he have forgotten? She had
been away for three weeks on a business trip to the East. He would be missing
her badly if it weren't for Susan.

"Why don't we make it tomorrow? I got things to do today," he said, pushing the
fork away.

"Oh." She looked disappointed.

He wondered how Lucky would feel about Susan's joining them for dinner and knew
instinctively that she would hate it. He could understand. After all, it was
her first night back, and they would have a lot to talk about.

There was time enough to introduce Susan into their lives, and he fully
intended to. Susan Martino was too much a lady to be just a one-week stand.

During the drive from the airport Lucky continued to fill Boogie in on her
trip. He was more than her driver and sometime bodyguard when the climate
indicated she was in need of protection. He was her friend, and she trusted him
implicitly. In times of trouble Boogie came through. As he had proved in the
past, he was loyal, smart and usually silent, unless he had something worth
saying-which suited Lucky just fine.

He drove her to the front of the Magiriano Hotel on the Strip. She got out of
the car and stood for a minute feeling the usual thrill of coming home to
her hotel.

The Magiriano -- a combination of her parents' names -- Maria and Gino. Gino's
dream, put into being by her while Gino sweated out a seven-year tax exile in
Israel. She would always be proud of her achievement. The Magiriano was very
special.

In the lobby there was the usual melee of tourists and noise. The casino was
crowded with morning gamblers. No windows. No clocks. Twenty-four hours nonstop
fun.

Lucky did not gamble. Who needed to play the tables when it all belonged to her
and Gino anyway? She strode across the lobby to her private elevator concealed
behind an arrangement of potted palms and inserted a code card to gain
entry.

It was good to be back.

She couldn't wait to see Gino. She had so much to tell him.

Jess did not live in luxury, but the small tract house in front of which she
stopped the car at least had its own tiny swimming pool. "This place is okay,
but we're movin' on soon," she explained airily, opening up the front door.
"We've seen a development in Lake Tahoe we're lookin' to buy into."

"Yeah?" said Lennie, and wondered who was looking to buy into it. From the
small amount of information Jess had divulged about her husband, it seemed he
didn't do much at all except look after their ten-month-old baby while she
brought in the money.

"Anyone around?" she called out, as a scruffy mongrel dog appeared and
wagged its sorry-looking tail. She bent to pet the animal. "This is Gaass," she
explained. "Found him dumped in the garbage when he was a pup. Cute, huh?"

Wayland appeared, or at least Lennie presumed it was he. From the look of him,
Jess had found herself another stray. He was dressed in grubby white chinos and
a loose, embroidered shirt, and his dirty feet were bare. He had
shoulder-length yellow hair with a center part, and a long, pallid face. Jess
-- who wrote wonderful letters -- had mentioned that he painted. Exactly what
he painted she hadn't gone into.

"Greetings, man"' said Wayland, stoned to the eyeballs. "Welcome to our home."
And he extended a thin, shaking hand.

"Where's...

Biographie de l'auteur :

There have been many imitators, but only ever one Jackie Collins.

The iconic British author has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair.

With millions of her books sold in more than forty countries, and with thirty-one New York Times bestsellers to her credit, she is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. 

From glamorous Beverly Hills bedrooms to Hollywood move studios; from glittering rock concerts in London to the yachts of Russian billionaires, Jackie Collins chronicled the scandalous lives of the rich, famous, and infamous from the inside looking out.

“I write about real people in disguise,” she once said. “If anything, my characters are toned down—the truth is much more bizarre!”

Her first novel, The World is Full of Married Men, was published in 1968 and established Collins as an author who dared to step where no other female writers had gone before. She followed it year after year with one successful title after another, including Chances, the first installment of a sprawling nine-book saga introducing the street-smart, sexy, and dynamic Lucky Santangelo. The eighties saw Jackie hitting her stride with the seminal blockbuster, Hollywood Wives, as well as Lucky, Hollywood Husbands, and Rock Star. In recent years she kept fans entertained with Poor Little Bitch Girl, The Power Trip, and her final novel, The Santagelos, never wavering on her commitment to take her readers on a “wild ride”!

Six of her novels have been adapted for film or TV and Universal Pictures has recently optioned the Santangelo series with a view to bringing Lucky to the big screen.

Jackie was awarded an OBE (Order of the British Empire) by the Queen of England in 2013 for her services to literature and charity. When accepting the honor she said to the Queen, “Not bad for a school drop-out”—a revelation capturing her belief that both passion and determination can lead to big dreams coming true. 

Jackie Collins lived in Beverly Hills where she had a front row seat to the lives she so accurately captured in her compulsive plotlines. She was a creative force, a trailblazer for women in fiction and in her own words “A kick-ass writer!”

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Pocket
• ISBN 10: 0671638459
• ISBN 13: 9780671638450
• Reliure: Broché