Read Online Goddess of Vengeance by Jackie Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Jackie Collins
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Seems to me you got no choice.’
Chapter Seven
L unch was a daily ritual for Armand. He always selected a different restaurant and a different luncheon guest, and he always made sure to pick up the check. Armand had no wish to be beholden to anyone. He was in charge, and let nobody doubt it.
Today he was anticipating his luncheon engagement more than usual, because today his guest was Martin Constantine, and how satisfying it would be to sit across the table from Martin and reflect on his morning activities with Martin’s lovely, unfaithful, whore-like wife.
Martin and he had come up against each other in various business deals, and usually Armand managed to come out on top. But the last deal they’d both been trying to close had gone in Martin’s favour, and that infuriated Armand. Hence the assignation with Martin’s wife. A satisfying punishment toward his business rival. And the secret knowledge that he’d had her in every sexual position he could think of.
Martin Constantine was a puffy-faced New Yorker in his sixties, with ruddy cheeks, a weak chin, and red-rimmed eyes. Martin Constantine was also a billionaire, although Armand suspected on paper only.
The two men shook hands and settled into a corner table. Martin had come to the lunch only because he was curious to find out what Armand wanted. It had to be something, for the two of them were hardly best friends, more like polite enemies. Not that Martin considered Armand polite – actually he couldn’t stand the man. He abhorred the way Armand swaggered around town always with a different woman on his arm – the way he attempted to give everyone the impression that his real-estate holdings were the cream, and that everyone else’s were inferior. As far as Martin was concerned, Constantine Holdings could buy and sell Jordan Developments and not even notice.
Lunch was uneventful. Small talk. Business talk. A derisive chat about Donald Trump’s television career, and how neither of them would ever sink that low. Reality television was for peasants, not for men of substance.
Armand was under the distinct impression that Martin would give his left ball for the public recognition of a Donald Trump whom he very much admired, but he would never admit it.
Over coffee, Armand contemplated telling Martin about his morning activities. He had an urge to do so, but then he realized it was more prudent to wait until he needed something from Martin.
‘How is your beautiful wife?’ he asked, when they stood up to leave. I fucked her this morning. I shoved my cock up her tight ass while she screamed like a banshee. I violated her in every way I could. She loved it. I did things to her that you would never dare.
‘Nona is a fantastic woman,’ Martin boasted. ‘I am so fortunate to have found her. She is the light of my life.’ He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘You should try marriage sometime, it might surprise you, being with one woman.’
‘Ah yes,’ Armand replied, keeping a straight face, because he’d discovered that before Martin had ‘found’ Nona, she was working as a call girl in Amsterdam. Armand had his spies. ‘I am certain that marriage is an honourable institution.’
They shook hands and parted company. Armand got into his Mercedes smiling to himself. What an old fool Martin Constantine was. He’d divorced his wife of thirty years and married a call girl.
The satisfaction was in the not telling.
And Armand would not tell. Not until it suited him.
* * *
Later in the day Armand summoned Fouad to his study. ‘Developments regarding The Keys?’ he demanded, leaning back in his leather desk chair, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desktop.
Fouad paused a moment before answering. He knew Armand was preparing to throw one of his screaming fits. With the news he was about to deliver there was no avoiding it.
‘Unfortunately—’ Fouad began.
Armand glared at him. ‘Unfortunately?’ he questioned, his eyes
Chapter Seven
L unch was a daily ritual for Armand. He always selected a different restaurant and a different luncheon guest, and he always made sure to pick up the check. Armand had no wish to be beholden to anyone. He was in charge, and let nobody doubt it.
Today he was anticipating his luncheon engagement more than usual, because today his guest was Martin Constantine, and how satisfying it would be to sit across the table from Martin and reflect on his morning activities with Martin’s lovely, unfaithful, whore-like wife.
Martin and he had come up against each other in various business deals, and usually Armand managed to come out on top. But the last deal they’d both been trying to close had gone in Martin’s favour, and that infuriated Armand. Hence the assignation with Martin’s wife. A satisfying punishment toward his business rival. And the secret knowledge that he’d had her in every sexual position he could think of.
Martin Constantine was a puffy-faced New Yorker in his sixties, with ruddy cheeks, a weak chin, and red-rimmed eyes. Martin Constantine was also a billionaire, although Armand suspected on paper only.
The two men shook hands and settled into a corner table. Martin had come to the lunch only because he was curious to find out what Armand wanted. It had to be something, for the two of them were hardly best friends, more like polite enemies. Not that Martin considered Armand polite – actually he couldn’t stand the man. He abhorred the way Armand swaggered around town always with a different woman on his arm – the way he attempted to give everyone the impression that his real-estate holdings were the cream, and that everyone else’s were inferior. As far as Martin was concerned, Constantine Holdings could buy and sell Jordan Developments and not even notice.
Lunch was uneventful. Small talk. Business talk. A derisive chat about Donald Trump’s television career, and how neither of them would ever sink that low. Reality television was for peasants, not for men of substance.
Armand was under the distinct impression that Martin would give his left ball for the public recognition of a Donald Trump whom he very much admired, but he would never admit it.
Over coffee, Armand contemplated telling Martin about his morning activities. He had an urge to do so, but then he realized it was more prudent to wait until he needed something from Martin.
‘How is your beautiful wife?’ he asked, when they stood up to leave. I fucked her this morning. I shoved my cock up her tight ass while she screamed like a banshee. I violated her in every way I could. She loved it. I did things to her that you would never dare.
‘Nona is a fantastic woman,’ Martin boasted. ‘I am so fortunate to have found her. She is the light of my life.’ He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘You should try marriage sometime, it might surprise you, being with one woman.’
‘Ah yes,’ Armand replied, keeping a straight face, because he’d discovered that before Martin had ‘found’ Nona, she was working as a call girl in Amsterdam. Armand had his spies. ‘I am certain that marriage is an honourable institution.’
They shook hands and parted company. Armand got into his Mercedes smiling to himself. What an old fool Martin Constantine was. He’d divorced his wife of thirty years and married a call girl.
The satisfaction was in the not telling.
And Armand would not tell. Not until it suited him.
* * *
Later in the day Armand summoned Fouad to his study. ‘Developments regarding The Keys?’ he demanded, leaning back in his leather desk chair, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desktop.
Fouad paused a moment before answering. He knew Armand was preparing to throw one of his screaming fits. With the news he was about to deliver there was no avoiding it.
‘Unfortunately—’ Fouad began.
Armand glared at him. ‘Unfortunately?’ he questioned, his eyes
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