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conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Goddess of Vengeance about Lucky, DIV><DIV>Praise, GODDESS with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction.
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conversations.value: <DIV><DIV>Praise for GODDESS OF VENGEANCE:</DIV><DIV>&#160;</DIV><DIV>"No one paints a more tawdry -- and delicious -- portrait of Hollywood than prolific novelist the author." &#8212;<I>New York Post</I></DIV><P>&#8220;The 73-year-old chick lit doyenne of raunchy romance presents No. 27 with a revival of her most popular character, Lucky Sanangelo. But as kick-ass as the now 50-something Lucky is&#8212;operating ancient patriarch Gino&#8217;s Las Vegas hotel empire as it comes under siege from a menacing royal brat with pervy sexual proclivities and a nasty drug habit&#8212;the packed plot belongs to the next generation: Lucky&#8217;s 17-year-old mini-me daughter, Max; hot-and-handsome oldest son, Bobby; and all the lovers and losers the spoiled duo cycle through with giddy abandon. There&#8217;s never a doubt the author&#8217;s cast of strong women, and the guys who chose them, will ferret out true love and survive. But that&#8217;s not entirely the point in this delicious, manic tale of rich people behaving badly, getting everything they deserve, and leaving enough loose ends to warrant an inevitable sequel.&#8221;&#8212;<I>Publishers Weekly</I> (starred review)</P><P>&#8220;In her latest novel featuring the popular Lucky Santangelo, the author does what she does best&#8212;dishing on Holly wood in a fast and furious read.&#8221;&#8212;<I>RT Book Review</I></P></DIV>
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conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' Always good to get out the word that there was a big spender in town.'.
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conversations.value: Goddess of Vengeance
  Oh yes, he remembered Annabelle, all right, and it was a memory he'd sooner forget. He and M.J. had double-teamed her—with her consent—on a drunken prom night. Something to never mention, especially to Denver, who he was sure would not appreciate hearing about it.
  A stern-looking older black woman armed with a lengthy guest list sat at the reception desk facing the elevator.
  Frankie bristled. "Frankie Romano," he said shortly. "An' you can forget about a room; we need a suite. An' make sure any calls get put directly through to me. Romano. R-O-M—"
  Cookie grabbed it, and pulled Frankie away from the desk. "Let's go," she singsonged. "Don't mess with Betty, she can be fierce!"
  The porter entered with their bags. Frankie tossed him the hundred-dollar bill the douche at reception had refused to accept. Always good to get out the word that there was a big spender in town.
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conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
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conversations.value: Drunken twat. Luscious preferred to stay sober, just in case. A girl never knew when a john could go postal and beat the crap out of her. It had happened to her once, and she carried the scars to prove it. Some old rocker dude with a penchant for girls crapping on his face had beaten her up when she'd refused to do what he'd wanted. She'd ended up in the emergency room getting sixteen stitches under her chin, and several on her forehead. Ever since then she'd worn bangs and plenty of makeup so no one noticed, but she knew the scars were there, and that was enough for her to make sure she stayed alert.
  She took another quick peek at the john, still hunched over the coffee table snorting coke with his girlfriend—although the girlfriend didn't seem to be as into it as he was. The girlfriend was definitely hanging back.
  Luscious felt like laughing out loud. These rich assholes with their delicate little coke habits didn't know dog shit. The real thrill and a way quicker high was smoking crack cocaine. Yeah. That was the shit, and Luscious should know, for she'd been doing it on and off since she was sixteen.
  Randy, on the other hand, was into speedballs; he swore they gave him the best high ever. A line of coke followed by a powerful snort of heroin—Randy called it his dream combination, and it certainly put him in a euphoric state.
  Luscious had tried it a couple of times. It frightened her, so she was canny enough to stick to the drug she was used to.
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conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
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conversations.value: Lucky had never discussed it with Venus, and fortunately, the burgeoning romance between Billy and Max had fizzled—with a little help from Lennie, who'd visited Billy and told him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his teenage daughter or there'd be major repercussions. Faced with pressure from his team of advisers as well, Billy had complied, and Max had taken off to London, where she now resided. Lucky missed her, although not as much as Lennie did. Lennie was way too protective, while Lucky knew it was good for Max to be out on her own experiencing independence.
  Lucky waited for Venus on a secluded terrace overlooking the golf course. Usually Venus liked to make an entrance, but today she'd requested that they meet somewhere quiet. Lucky had agreed, and now she was sitting on the terrace sipping a Campari and orange juice. Closing her eyes for a moment, she imagined the new hotel complex she was planning. A hotel attached to a movie studio. How fantastic! How innovative! And even though it would take at least two or three years to build, she was excited. It occurred to her that maybe she'd even start producing movies again. She'd always enjoyed the process, and it could be fun, another challenge. Perhaps she and Lennie could work on something together. Although if they did that, they'd probably kill each other.
  She smiled at the thought of two incredibly stubborn people working side by side. No. It was never going to happen.
  A woman was walking toward her. A dark-haired woman wearing frumpy clothes and old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but Lucky wasn't sure what it was until the woman pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.
  THE SANTANGELOS. Copyright © 2015 by Chances, Inc. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.