“Absolutely.” She nodded vehemently. “On pain of death, I swear.”
“The truth is, if Tisch goes out of business, that’ll be worth a lot more than a hundred grand to me,” admitted Ben, instinctively reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “But more importantly, if he is trafficking kids, he deserves everything you can throw at him. Besides, after all the shit he pulled on Lucas, I’d like to see him get a taste of his own medicine. I’m happy to help.”
Sian, whose heart had practically stopped beating when he took her hand, immediately pulled it away at the mention of Lucas.
“Why do you even still care about that guy?” she said, shaking her head. “He’s such a jerk.”
“He’s changed,” said Ben. “People do, you know. You should give him another chance.”
“Hmm,” said Sian, skeptically. “Maybe next lifetime.”
Gathering up her ridiculous pile of outerwear, she thanked Ben again profusely and promised to call with regular updates on her progress.
“E-mail me your account details and I’ll have Coutts wire the money first thing in the morning,” said Ben, as she made for the door. “Oh, and don’t forget this.” He handed her her broken padlock and chain. “You never know whose sofa you may need to lay claim to next, right?”
“Right.” Sian blushed, kissing him briefly on the cheek. “Sorry again. About that.”
When Tammy bustled into his office five minutes later, Ben was still standing in the exact same spot where Sian had left him, staring into space.
“Good,” she said briskly. “She’s gone. Right, then. D’you want me to book you a car at twelve forty-five, or are you driving?”
“Hmm?” said Ben.
“The wedding planner,” said Tammy, with a lot more patience than she felt. “Remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. Book the car,” said Ben. But wedding planners were the last thing on his mind. He now had a legitimate reason to talk to Sian, and even to see her regularly. Bianca was so wrapped up in bridesmaids’ dresses and placements, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. And who knew, maybe he’d even get a bonus out of it and knock Anton Tisch and the unstoppable Excelsior off their market-dominating pedestal?
Today was starting to look up after all.
Anton grabbed Petra’s breasts with both hands and squeezed tightly, sucking in his paunch as he thrust inside her.
Not bad for fifty-two, he thought smugly, feeling his glutes contract and his lower back muscles give a satisfying ripple as he moved. Fucking Petra was like driving a Bentley Continental: smooth, easy, and immensely satisfying. She was always wet for him, but he made sure to slather her between the legs with a generous dollop of Astroglide anyway. It made it easier for him to shift gears from drive into reverse, as he liked to think of it. And although it didn’t take her pain away completely, listening to the woman’s muffled, high-pitched squeals was all part of the thrill of anal sex—yet another activity that Petra excelled at.
“Ah,” she hollered now, right on cue. “Not so hard, Anton, please. It hurts.”
But the arching of her back and stiffening of her nipples beneath his palms told a different story.
“Be quiet,” he said, smiling as he felt her tighten the muscles gripping his cock in an involuntary little spasm of excitement.
Her body, displayed in front of him on all fours and to spectacular effect in the mirrored walls of the hotel bedroom, was a work of art. Her skin was white and smooth, her breasts and buttocks full but firm (he despised scrawny women), and her legs long and infinitely spreadable. Between them was a neatly trimmed landing strip of pubic hair, dyed the same white-blonde as the hair on her head, around which everything else had been waxed into oblivion: perfect.
Better in bed than a prostitute, more discreet than a KGB agent, well bred and smart to boot, she was the best lover he’d ever had, as well as one of the finest managers he’d ever employed. Thanks to her daddy, Oleg, a Russian press baron, she was also independently wealthy—for Petra, her career was purely about ambition, never money—and had as little interest in marrying him as he did in marrying her.
In short, he thought, grabbing hold of her hair as he felt his orgasm building, she was his ideal woman. He must be careful not to attach himself emotionally, or he’d be sunk.
“Turn around,” he grunted, pulling his twitching dick out of her body and holding it in his hands. She complied, positioning herself the way she knew he wanted—kneeling, but very low, so that he could kneel over her. Grabbing her skull, he yanked her head backward, then came, showering her alabaster cheeks with warm spurts of semen, one after another.
When he was finished, he sank back against the fluffy white pillows and gazed contentedly at the ceiling. He liked the Hotel Pennsylvania. There was something so very New York about it that appealed to him. Not the minimalist, modern, self-conscious Schrager New York. This was the old-school version: classy, luxurious, stylish in its own understated, confident way. He adored the fact that Duke Ellington and Glenn Miller had once been guests. Miller had even written a song incorporating the Pen’s telephone number. Best of all, they let him bring Mitzi here, a concession Anton considered highly civilized.
In normal circumstances he’d have stayed at the Herrick. But East Hampton was so desolate and dreary in winter, and he couldn’t face the trek out there. Besides, he was only in New York for two days, on fund business, so it didn’t make sense to stay out of town.
“Tell me more about Vegas,” he called after Petra, who’d disappeared into the bathroom to clean up.
“Oh, it was hilarious,” she said, reemerging still damp from the shower and crawling under the sheet beside him. “I wish you’d been there. You’d have laughed.”
That was another thing he loved about her. No matter how much he degraded or controlled her in bed, as soon as sex was over it was back to conversation as usual. Sitting up naked in bed, she looked as clean and flushed as if she’d just finished an energetic game of tennis. Certainly she wasn’t remotely ashamed.
“Would I?” he said, kissing her indulgently.
“Lucas was strutting around like Mick Jagger, talking up his new hotel.”
Anton had tried his damnedest to stop Lucas from acquiring any land in the Hamptons, but he’d underestimated the strength of local hostility toward the ever-brasher Herrick. All his bribes to the planning committee were rejected, and his threats—perhaps foolishly—ignored. As a last resort he’d promised the owner of the plot that Lucas had eventually bought three times Lucas’s offer not to sell to him. But the seller was rich enough not to need Anton’s money and stubborn enough not to appreciate being bullied. The deal had gone ahead.
“You know he’s calling it Luxe America now?” Petra gave a short, derisive snort. “Talk about megalomania! Why not Luxe Planet Earth? Luxe Cosmos? He’s so ridiculous, with his pathetic little postage stamp of land. It’s not even on the good side of town.”
“Has he started building yet?” asked Anton casually. Though irritated Lucas had found a site, Anton didn’t feel threatened by him. The tiny scale of what he was proposing in the Hamptons would barely impact the Herrick, like a flea on the back of a camel.
Petra shook her head. “No. I drove by the site yesterday morning, and it was deserted. He’s cleared planning though. Fuck knows how he managed that.”
“Indeed,” growled Anton.
“And he’s hired a site manager, a Frenchman, who’s been running around town telling everyone they’ll be open by Christmas.”
“Has he indeed?” said Anton. “Well, we’ll see about that. Who’s funding him, do you know? He’s only just opened in Paris, so he must be stretched pretty thin.”
“If he is, you’d never know it, the way he was strutting around like cock of the walk,” said Petra sharply. “Word is, he’s had a serious falling out with his partner and is scouting about for someone new.”
Anton raised an eyebrow. That was interesting. He made a mental note to find out the name of Lucas’s partn
er and get in touch.
“The funniest thing of all wasn’t Lucas, though,” said Petra, her eyes lighting up with cruelty like a cat before a kill. “It was Honor Palmer, running around the Wynn with her little bag of architects’ plans, trying to find someone to cough up for a complete rebuild. If I didn’t hate her so much, I might actually have felt sorry for her. Talk about the mighty fallen.”
Anton smiled. He didn’t share Petra’s passionate loathing for Honor, but he could still relish the image of East Hampton’s onetime princess wandering Las Vegas cap in hand like a pauper.
“No takers?” he asked.
“Of course not!” Petra sneered. “Well, unless you count Fred Gillespie, who agreed to lend her a couple of hundred out of pity. She needs ten million for that project, at least; the insurers aren’t budging and all the Palmer family money’s gone up Tina’s nose. She’ll probably end up laying the bricks herself. I can just picture her in a pair of overalls and a hard hat, can’t you? Or perhaps she and her humanitarian sister can shoot a new home movie. That should raise a few bucks.”
“Not to mention a few dicks,” said Anton, and they both laughed.
It was a novel sensation for him to feel so companionable with a woman. But Petra really did feel like a partner. An equal, even. He was also flattered that she found him funny. In England people continually made jokes about Germans being humorless, and though he pretended to laugh along, inside these jibes needled him more than he liked to admit. He’d always considered himself to be really quite witty. It was a pleasure to have finally found a woman who thought so too.
“Let’s have a party,” he said, out of the blue. Petra looked perplexed. “A party? What for?”
“To celebrate our being voted Relais Chateaux’s number one.” Throwing back the covers with a sigh, Petra got out of bed and started pulling on her clothes. “You’re jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you?” she said, doing up the fly on her white Calvin Klein jeans with an audibly brusque zip. “The results aren’t out until next month.”
“Actually,” said Anton smugly, “I got a call from Matthieu Fremeau in Geneva yesterday. Strictly off the record, of course, but he says we’ve got it.”
Shrieking like a banshee, Petra dropped her bra and sweater on the ground and made a flying leap, topless, back onto the bed and into his arms.
“Really?” she beamed, her face flushed with triumph and excitement. “He’s quite sure?”
“Quite,” said Anton, laughing and cupping her soft, milky-white breasts in his hands. “We’ll do the party in the summer. Make sure it’s so fabulous that the press lose interest in Lucas and his pathetic efforts to compete with us.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Petra. “It’ll be fabulous all right.”
Flipping onto her knees, she lowered her head and wrapped her lips lovingly around his cock, her tongue caressing him expertly until he hardened like cooling lava.
Closing his eyes, Anton relished the sensation. Did life get any better than this?
He had the number one fund, the number one hotel, and now the number one woman in the world.
He deserved a fucking party.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HONOR LEANED HEAVILY on the handle of the weed-whacker and peeled off the blue cotton shirt that was glued to her back with sweat. Tying it around her waist, she took a moment to get her breath back.
In front of her was a thing of rare beauty, at least in her eyes: a wooden skeleton of a building, half finished on the west side but still open to the elements everywhere else, its slate-tiled roof just beginning to take shape beneath a blindingly bright April sun.
The great Palmers rebuild had been underway for ten weeks now. Sometimes, waking up in the little cottage she’d rented in town, her muscles aching from the previous day’s labor, she still found it hard to believe that it was really happening. That the dream that had seemed so utterly hopeless in Vegas was actually coming to fruition.
After her disastrous one-night stand with Lucas—an error of judgment that still haunted her daily—Honor’s luck had finally changed. First Fred Gillespie, bless his triply bypassed heart, had agreed to an interest-free loan of two hundred and fifty thousand to get the ball rolling, as he put it.
“Of course I’ll help you, kiddo,” he said, taking her hand between his own great bear paws over lunch at the Venetian. “Your father was like a brother to me. And I know he may not always have shown it too well, but Trey loved you. If he’d still been in his right mind at the end, he’d never have behaved the way he did, leaving your trust so vulnerable.”
Honor was so choked, she burst into tears. The fiasco of her night with Lucas, on top of the stress of the last few months, had left her seriously tired and emotional. Fred’s kindness was just too much.
The quarter of a million he was offering was barely a drop in the ocean of what she needed, but his faith in her marked a turning point in her own thinking. How could she expect an outsider to invest, with no security beyond an insurance payout that now looked ever more unlikely, if she wasn’t prepared to lose the shirt from her own back?
As soon as she got back from the conference, she met with a bunch of contractors, hired one, and set them to work at once, blowing almost all of Fred’s money on their first retainer and initial materials. Knowing that if she didn’t raise more cash immediately she would lose everything, her next step was to meet with the mortgage company and come to an agreement for paying off her debts slowly that stopped just short of declaring herself bankrupt. After that, she put her old Boston bachelorette pad on the market and began systematically selling off every last asset, from stocks and premium bonds to valuable family paintings. With gut-wrenching regret, she even sold the jewelry her mother had left her as a keepsake—two valuable ruby bracelets and a topaz-and-diamond choker, so precious to her that she’d never even worn them once for risk of losing them.
“Are you quite certain, Miss Palmer?” the kind man at Christie’s in New York had asked her, watching her lovingly finger the stones as she handed them over. “I’m sure we can fetch a good price for them, but sentimental items like this…you may live to regret parting with them.”
I’m already regretting parting with them, thought Honor with a pang. All she had left of her mother now were some dog-eared photographs and few letters she’d gleaned from the chaos of Trey’s home office after he died. She tried not to think about Tina, lounging around getting stoned in Santa Fe while that blood-sucking cult bled her bank accounts dry. She must stay focused on Palmers—keep her eyes on the prize, as Trey always used to say. Besides, she reasoned with herself firmly, it was only jewelry, and no more part of her mother than Palmers had once been.
Depressingly, even after turning her entire life into one big yard sale, she was still a long way short of what she needed to finish the building project. Day to day, week to week, she lived on a knife-edge, watching her funds deplete, sucked into the black hole of construction far faster than she could replace them. Desperate, she swallowed her pride and allowed gossip and lifestyle magazines to write features on her. They all wanted to know about her relationship with Tina, who by now had achieved iconic pinup status similar to Pam Anderson’s as America’s favorite slut-turned-saint. Honor quickly learned the art of providing them with exclusive “new” information without actually revealing anything significant, and soon became a regular on the pages of US Weekly, In Style, and even European magazines like Hello! and OK! She tried to tell herself that it would all be good publicity for Palmers when it opened next year (please God let it open next year!) and that in any case she needed the money and had no other choice. But she still felt like a prostitute every time she saw airbrushed pictures of herself lounging on a couch looking pampered and privileged. They normally had her in floaty John Galliano dresses, holding a flute of champagne. What a joke! She seemed to spend most of her time these days in overalls or sweatpants, schlepping bricks and tiles around like a cart horse.
Not that she was
complaining. Despite the back-breaking work and constant financial worry, coming on-site every morning was a joy, and she wouldn’t have sacrificed her hands-on involvement for anything, however much Petra Kamalski might scoff. Whether looking at spreadsheets, arguing with suppliers, or getting down onto her hands and knees to inspect the damp proofing, this was Honor’s dream made real. She needed to be a part of it, to live it and breathe it like the oxygen that, for her, it was. All the old magic from her childhood—the Palmers magic—was still there. She could feel it in the air. But this time, Honor controlled it. She was the sorcerer, conjuring the building and the gardens to her will. Even now, in its half-built state, it was so fucking beautiful it made her want to cry.
The toughest times came at the end of the day, when she was forced to leave the magic behind and go home. It would be many months yet until she could move into the hotel. Until then, “home” was a quaint but impractical cottage smack-dab in the middle of town—impractical because there was nowhere near enough space for the mountainous piles of paperwork that the building project seemed to generate on an hourly basis and because there was no privacy. Many a morning Honor had woken to the sound of clattering downstairs and charged into the kitchen with the nearest blunt instrument only to find it was Mrs. Miggins from next door returning the cup of sugar she’d borrowed, or Joe, the site manager, letting himself in to look for some plans, or just in search of a cup of coffee. While it was nice to feel part of a community, and to feel that local people—Petra aside, of course—were rooting for her and for Palmers, Honor was discovering that you could definitely have too much of a good thing.
Last week, to her passionate relief, she’d received a phone call from her old bank manager and former family friend, Randy Malone.
“You’ve come a long way with your rebuild I see,” he told her warmly. “In the light of what you’ve achieved, and the investment already made, the bank might be prepared to reconsider that loan you asked for a few months back. Why don’t you pop in for a chat?”