City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(38)
“The only reason,” he said without a trace of rancor at that dinner, “that a young woman as beautiful as you would date a man twenty years her senior, as ugly as me, is my money. Am I wrong?”
“It certainly was the reason I came,” she said. “It would only be part of the reason I would stay.”
“But a major part.”
“Of course.”
They came to an equally frank understanding. If money was the main currency, as it were, of their relationship, she would only be a purchase, not a rental. If he wanted to take her off the stage, he had to set her at the altar. He would marry her, give her a luxurious life, settle an independent fortune on her. In return, she would give him her beauty, her wit, her companionship.
She couldn’t promise her heart.
He accepted that.
The gossip columns called the match, inevitably, “Beauty and the Beast,” reveled in printing photos of the statuesque bride and the hunched-over groom. The bridesmaids composed a virtual chorus line, giving the ceremony an erotic charge; his groomsmen were mostly his cousins. Shelly walked the bride down the aisle.
“You don’t get ten percent of this,” Madeleine joked.
“But I should,” Shelly said. “I’m losing a lot of income here. Are you sure you want to do this, kid? It’s not too late to run.”
“I’m sure.”
Out of respect for Manny—and there was immense respect for him among the smartest and most powerful Las Vegas operators—every important person in town attended the ceremony and came to the lavish reception.
Madeleine and Manny spent their wedding night in the bridal suite of the Flamingo.
Madeleine took a long time in the bathroom, making sure her hair was coiffed in a stylish updo, that her makeup was perfect. She slipped into one of Manny’s less cheesy negligees, filmy black silk, over one of his red corsets lined with black lace, black mesh stockings and garters.
Nothing she would have chosen for herself, but she knew it would please him.
She came out and struck a pose in the bathroom doorway, one long leg bent and extended, one arm raised, her hand along the doorframe.
He lay on the bed in a set of blue silk pajamas, an effort that did nothing to improve him nor mask his erection.
“What do you think?” she asked, shifting her hips.
“So lovely.”
Madeleine walked over to the bed and stood in front of him. “You know, you’re my first.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Am I yours?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said, lying down next to him. “You’ll know what to do to me.”
He didn’t, not really.
His prior experience had been entirely with hookers, simple commercial exchanges to satisfy a physical need. So he climbed on top of her, pushed up the hem of the negligee, fumbled with the rubber, and put himself between her legs.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“You won’t.” Although Madeleine wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t wet, not even a little turned on, and he was big. Putting her arms around him, under his pajama shirt, she felt his back. It was hairy, like an animal’s, and sweaty. In her best breathy Marilyn Monroe voice, she said, “Take me, darling. Make me yours.”
It did hurt.
It got a little better, not painful, even slightly pleasurable as he thrust into her mechanically, like one of the machines in his factory, proceeding with rhythmic precision to produce a set result.
For him.
Out of affection for him she moaned, wriggled and whined, whispered naughty nothings into his ear, shut her eyes to block out his ugliness and feigned orgasm moments before he came.
A few moments later he said, “It will get better.”
“It was wonderful.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Manny said. “It’s beneath you.”
They honeymooned in Paris. Stayed in the best hotel, ate in the finest restaurants, shopped in the most exclusive boutiques, and he looked painfully out of place in all of them.
Madeleine gave him everything she had in bed—dressed provocatively, screwed him in every position she could imagine, sucked him off, let him go down on her. That was part of the deal, and, an honorable woman, she honored it. She gave him immense pleasure; her own was mild at best.
Toward the end of the two weeks in France, Madeleine told him, “This has been wonderful, and I’m truly appreciative, but Manny, I don’t need all this. What I want is a nice home, a steady, quiet life.”
They went home to his mansion outside of town, a one-level neo-Spanish colonial on acreage. A large swimming pool outside a slider from the living room, a garden of citrus trees. A circular driveway wrapped around a fountain.
Manny put fifty thousand dollars in her bank account.
She was nineteen.
Being married to Manny was . . . pleasant.
She got up early in the morning with him, their cook made them breakfast, he went to the office and she did calisthenics to keep her showgirl figure. She spent most mornings growing her portfolio. Manny introduced her to stockbrokers and financial advisers, and she studied the market assiduously, making conservative but incisive investments. One of the companies she bought shares in was Maniscalco Manufacturing.
In the afternoons, Madeleine might play tennis with the hired coach, or swim in the pool, or go into town to have lunch with old show friends or shop. She was most often home before Manny, would sit on the terrace and read.