A crafty expression crossed Faisal's face. "You will see," he sneered. "Everyone will see."

And that was the moment when Lucky knew she was right. Something terrible was about to happen, and somehow or other she had to stop it.

Outside on the terrace, King Emir was becoming restless.

"Go see who is making noise," he said to his grandson. "It is disturbing me."

Tariq got to his feet. "Can we leave soon?" he whined. "I'm bored."

King Emir fingered his thick beard. "The time is almost upon us. You will see justice as it should be done. You will witness retribution for your dear father's death. Only then will we leave this place."

Tariq threw him a sulky look. Sometimes he didn't understand a word his grandfather said. What was with justice and retribution and all the things the old man carried on about? What did retribution even mean? None of it made any sense to him.

Nazeem and Salman stood side by side in a rarely used narrow passageway that led outside to where all the guests were gathered. Nazeem and Salman wore long black robes and their faces were expressionless. For many, many months they'd been living a life they'd refused to embrace. American culture was not for them. It was crass and degrading. They'd managed to blend in as much as they could, and the previous night their loyalty had been justly rewarded, for King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan had granted them an audience.

The two of them had stood before him in awe while their king had told them how proud he was of them, and how the people of Akramshar would be forever grateful for the act of sacrifice they were soon to commit.

"You will be heroes," King Emir had promised. "Your families and many other of your relatives will be revered because of your brave and loyal acts. Money will flow toward them, and the memory of your courage will never die."

They both had courage, although they were also filled with a deep fear of the unknown. They shivered beneath their heavy robes, painfully aware of the suicide vests strapped to their chests. Vests that could be detonated only by a cell-phone device in the hands of their king.

They feared discovery as they hovered near the opening. If that happened, the king would detonate early. He had the power; they didn't. It was all right, though, because King Emir was their ruler, and therefore, he had to be obeyed at all times.

Still ... this didn't stop their feeling of dread.

Soon it would be all over, and so would they.

It was inevitable. It was their king's desire.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX.

Driving down the freeway listening to Pammy carrying on, Jeff Williams couldn't help reflecting on his life. He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in Silver Lake. He had two ex-wives and a kid that he never saw. Work was his pleasure. Unearthing stories he could headline in Truth and Fact or on his very popular Web site, The Truth with Jeff, was really all he was interested in-that and a full bottle of scotch to start the evening. Jeff Williams was a man used to getting his own way. He had a press pass and a macho attitude, plus plenty of cash to hand out if needed. There was no way he was looking to get involved with anyone. Whenever he felt horny he simply summoned an available call girl, who'd come by his place and satisfy him.

So why was he suddenly experiencing an attraction to Willow Price's mom?

It shouldn't be happening. She'd obviously been around the block one time too many, and she had to be over forty. Not that age mattered anymore; most of the actresses who were hanging in there were way past forty. Jennifer Aniston, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz. Yeah, forty was the new shit.

He shot a sidelong glance at Pammy. Nice tits. Pretty face. Must have been a knockout when she was younger, just like her bad-girl daughter. And oh boy, was she spilling about Willow-he was getting a load of stuff, much more than he'd expected, for once Pammy started talking, she couldn't stop. A lot of the crap she was coming out with was all about her, and how she'd struggled and sacrificed to give Willow everything she could, but along the way there were a few hidden gems such as Willow's abortions and affairs with powerful married executives.

Jeff reckoned he was going to end up with one hell of a juicy story. And maybe he'd even end up with the mom. Stranger things had happened.

So far all was going smoothly. Felicity hovered near Willow's room, occasionally peeking in to make sure she was still sleeping. Soon Jeff Williams would be arriving, and that was the time for Willow to wake up and hopefully remember who she was. Then Jeff would get his story, she'd get her money, and all would be well-as long as Shaquita didn't interfere. Fortunately, a couple of gunshot victims had recently been admitted, and Shaquita was all over them. She'd instructed Felicity to keep an eye on the girl in room six, and that suited Felicity just fine.

Jeff Williams had told her he would call her the moment he arrived, and she couldn't wait. She ran to the restroom to check out her appearance. This was her big day; she had to look her best.

"We're here," Jeff announced, pulling his car into the parking lot of the hospital.

"About time," Pammy said, releasing her squashed tits from the confines of the seat belt. "I'm parched," she ventured. "I sure could use a drink before we go in."

"I'm guessin' you don't mean water?" Jeff said, scratching his stubbled chin.

"You're guessing right," Pammy replied with a coquettish tilt of her head.

"Well, Willow's mom, this has gotta be your lucky day," he said, leaning across her to reach into the glove compartment, his arm surreptitiously grazing her breasts. "'Cause I got a bottle of scotch stashed right here with your sweet name written all over it."

"Ohh..." Pammy sighed, fluttering her over-mascaraed eyelashes. "You're my kind of man."

A few minutes later, they were heading in to the lobby of the hospital, both duly fortified with a couple of swigs of scotch.

"Remember," Jeff told her, taking a firm grip on her arm. "We're a married couple. I'm Willow's dad an' you're the mom."

"But I am her mom," Pammy said, confused.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Only hand these fuckers an ounce of authority, an' they might try t' gimme a hard time if they get a sniff I'm not a relative."

"I understand," Pammy said, changing her first opinion of Jeff Williams. It occurred to her that she might have been slightly off; he had a strong macho personality that went a long way to making up for the leathery skin and burgeoning paunch. She also suspected that he was into her.

She wondered if he had money-not a fortune; enough to make her happy would do.

Mrs. Jeff Williams. It had quite a pleasant ring to it.

Felicity's phone buzzed.

"We're downstairs in the lobby," Jeff said. "You wanna come an' get us?"

"Us"? Who was "us"? He hadn't mentioned that he would be bringing someone. Could it be his photographer? She wished she'd washed her hair; she was sure they'd want to photograph her.

Bypassing Shaquita, who was on the phone at the nurses' desk, Felicity took the elevator downstairs. She immediately spotted the couple. Jeff Williams was hard to miss in his red shirt and crumpled blue jacket. The woman with him was also quite a sight in a too-tight yellow flowered dress and exceptionally high heels. Felicity approached them. "Jeff?" she questioned.

"That's me," he said, winking at her.

"I'm Felicity."

"Yes you are," Jeff said with a genial smile. "Bonus points," he added, indicating Pammy. "This is Willow's mom."

"Oh," Felicity said, disappointed. "I thought she might be your photographer. I don't mind having my photo taken." A pause. "That's if you want to."

"Sure," Jeff said, used to dealing with what he called "civilians." "Maybe later, 'cause right now we gotta go see our little girl." Another wink. "I'm playin' Daddy, get it?"

No. Felicity didn't get it. Full of even more disappointment, she led them toward the elevator, getting a noseful of stale cigarette smoke and booze.

This was not how she'd imagined it would be.

Should she ask him for her money now? Or was it best to wait?

She couldn't decide.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN.

Unaware of a room filled with tension, Tariq walked in and was surprised to see that Faisal had visitors.

"Grandfather says you're making too much noise," he muttered to Faisal. "It disturbs him."

Lucky took one look at the teenage boy, and the image of Armand Jordan came rushing into her head. The boy looked exactly like him; he had the slightly hooded eyes, the sharp nose, the same features. This had to be the son of Armand Jordan-the man who'd been shot to death in her hotel, the man who'd tried to buy the Keys and failed, the man who'd said to her as he'd marched from her office in a fury, "I can assure you, bitch, this is not the end. It is merely the beginning of a battle you will eventually lose. So get off your high horse and run back into the bedroom where you belong."

Armand Jordan. She'd never forgotten his ignorant words. He'd been a delusional, pathetic man who'd spent his time in Vegas ordering up hookers that he'd refused to pay, gambling, drinking, and drugging. Now his son was here. And the son's grandfather was King Emir.

On impulse she grabbed the boy's arm in a steely grip. "Take me to your grandfather," she commanded. "Take me right now."

Startled, Tariq looked to Faisal. Faisal attempted to move toward them. Chris blocked him.

One of the guards stepped forward. "Back off," Chris growled, pushing back his jacket to reveal a gun stuck in his belt.

"Let's go, kid," Lucky said to the boy.

Tariq's eyes were wide with anticipation. This was more exciting than sitting beside his grandfather being bored to death.

After checking Ian's office and not finding Lucky, Bobby headed back to the lobby, where he ran into a pale-faced Ian emerging from the penthouse elevator.

"Have you seen Lucky?" he asked.

"She's up in the penthouse suite," Ian replied, thinking it was definitely time he moved back to England. These people were insane with their out-of-control accusations. He didn't care to work for them anymore.

"What's she doing there?"

"Harassing the king of Akramshar, who just spent millions of dollars at this hotel."

"Why's she doing that when everyone's waiting for her?"

"Your mother," Ian said tightly, "seems to be under the false impression that King Emir is involved in a ridiculous plot to create some sort of havoc during the ceremony."

"What plot?"

"There is no plot," Ian said testily. "I'm afraid this is out of my hands. I cannot believe this is happening. Your mother has an extremely fertile imagination."

"My mother," Bobby said sharply, "is not a woman to be messed with. And you seem to be forgetting that you work for her, so I suggest you think before you speak."

Ian threw Bobby a spiteful look. "What's it like to live in Lucky Santangelo's shadow?" he asked.

"Fuck you," Bobby retorted.

"Most eloquent," Ian sneered, already planning his letter of resignation.

Bobby ignored him and pressed the button for the elevator. He didn't have time to exchange barbs with an uptight prick like Ian Simmons. He had other things on his mind, and that was to find Lucky and get her outside to the ceremony.

Tariq wondered what his grandfather was going to say when he appeared with this woman who was so unlike the women of Akramshar. This woman was strong and determined. She was also very beautiful-even though she was older. He wanted to ask her why she was here. He wanted to know her name. She had clouds of black hair and she smelled of jasmine and peaches. Her eyes were darker than night.

The man with her had produced a gun. Tariq had a gun too, but his gun was back in Akramshar. His grandfather had taught him to shoot on his twelfth birthday, then later he'd presented him with a solid gold gun. It was one of his most prized possessions.

Tariq's mouth was dry. He'd witnessed the king's wrath before, and when King Emir was approached by this woman, surely it would be bad? He only hoped that he would not get the blame.

"Who ... who are you?" he stammered as they approached the outside terrace. "What do you want with my grandfather?"

"This is a joke," Senator Peter Richmond steamed. "We've been sitting out here in the heat for almost half an hour. I've had enough."

"What did you expect?" his wife, Betty, scoffed. "May I remind you that this is a Lucky Santangelo event. Tasteless and flashy-exactly like the woman herself. I do not know why you insisted we attend."

"I have my reasons," Peter responded, thinking of the incriminating photos he was desperate to get his hands on.

Betty threw him a venomous look. She knew exactly why they were there; nothing got past Betty.

"I need to use the restroom," Peter said, standing up. "Craven, you come with me."

Craven jumped up. Obeying his father was always number one on his list of things to do.

A few seats away, Annabelle complained to Eddie that she felt sick. "I can't take sitting out here sweating my ass off," she said with a petulant sigh. "Don't they realize there's a pregnant woman present? Why isn't this thing starting?"

"Like I would know," Eddie responded. He was as irritated as his wife, although he was also determined to see it through. After all, there were important people everywhere, and networking was his life.