Free The Santangelos by Jackie Collins Page A

although it hadn’t been an easy journey.
    “By the way—in case I haven’t told you lately,” Lennie added, “you make me the happiest man in the world.”
    “I like it! More!”
    “The woman wants more,” Lennie drawled, shaking his head. “You’re insatiable.”
    “I think you already know that.”
    “I think I do.”
    They smiled at each other, totally content.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    The Italian photographer was thirtyish and hot, with a cocky attitude and hair tied back in a sleek ponytail. “Ciao,” he said.
    Athena had warned Max about Italian men. In fact, everyone had warned her about Italian men, even Lady Harriet, who’d one day revealed that as a young girl she’d lived in Rome and had experienced a procession of Italian lovers, all of them untrustworthy, concerned only with the size and performance of their precious members.
    “Mummy!” Athena had exclaimed, feigning shock. “I never knew you were so bloody randy!”
    “I experimented plenty in my day,” Lady Harriet had replied, slurping down even more wine. “And you, my dear, have inherited my adventurous spirit.”
    So Max was warned. However, Carlo, with his olive skin and sexy eyes, was quite attractive in a bad-boy kind of way, and Max couldn’t help wondering if he would be the one to take her mind off Billy.
    It turned out that he wasn’t. He was what Lucky would call an arrogant little prick.
    Carlo obviously considered himself the second coming of Mario Testino. He had three assistants, all of whom he treated like crap. Also present were two male representatives from the jeans company, and the usual glam squad of hairstylists, makeup artists, and clothes stylists. Max knew the glam squad through Athena, and they too considered Carlo to be an annoying diva.
    “His cock is bigger than his talent,” the makeup man confided in a low voice. “And that’s not saying much.”
    Max giggled. She was standing in front of the camera in low-rise jeans and a crop top, her long dark hair piled on top of her head. She radiated sexy teenage spirit.
    “Too much trouble for you to concentrate?” Carlo yelled at her across the studio floor. “You look like a donkey with that stonato smirk on your face.”
    What would Athena do? She’d probably tell him to go fuck himself. But Max was nowhere near the dizzying heights of Athena, so she bit down hard on her lower lip and remained silent. These photos had to be good. No, not good—awesome. These photos were her gateway to the big-time.
    One of the jeans reps stepped forward and whispered something in Carlo’s ear.
    Carlo gave a vigorous nod and shouted instructions to Max. “Top off,” he commanded as if it was no big deal, and if she were Athena, it wouldn’t have been. However, Max had never done topless, nor did she want to.
    “Excuse me?” she said, feeling a sudden rush of nervousness.
    “ Scusi ,” he said, mimicking her. “Top off, sticchiu .”
    She didn’t understand what sticchiu meant, but she sure as hell knew it wasn’t nice. “My agent never said anything about nudity,” she ventured, standing her ground.
    Carlo launched into a stream of Italian. He then grabbed one of his assistants by the arm, a thin girl with a sallow complexion, her hair in braids, and instructed her to translate. The girl was a wreck. But although Carlo had almost twisted her arm off, she still seemed to be in total awe of him.
    “Carlo would like you to remove your top and cover your breasts with your hands,” the girl said in halting English. “He will not show nipples. Artistically, the covering-your-breasts shot will work for him.”
    “Oh,” Max gulped. She’d seen Athena do the pose a hundred times, so why not? “Okay,” she mumbled unsurely. “As long as it’s not too revealing. I’m like so not into doing nudity.”
    The gay stylist hurried forward as Carlo strode around the set, muttering to himself while absentmindedly stroking his manhood as if to reassure himself it was