Platinum Coast. Lynne Pemberton

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      ‘Good morning, Susanna,’ he said brightly. ‘Up so early? To what do I owe this pleasure?’

      She ignored his question. ‘Antonio,’ she demanded with barely controlled irritation, ‘how many times do I have to ask you? After you have been swimming, please come in through the kitchen. You are dripping all over the Aubusson.’

      Her blue eyes were cold and full of disapproval.

      He was tempted to tell her acidly that the faded, threadbare rug he was soaking had cost him several thousand dollars. That if he wanted to stand on it, wet or otherwise, he would. And that furthermore, if there was one thing he had learned in his long years of association with a tight-ass like Stephen Reece-Carlton, it was that it was vulgar to use anything but the generic: ‘the car’, not ‘the Mercedes’; ‘champagne’, not ‘Dom Perignon’; ‘the rug’, not the goddamned ‘Aubusson’! He caught his own chain of thought and smiled ironically. Well, what do you know? Some of Stephen’s class had finally rubbed off. Too bad it had to be after his death. He wondered if he ought to correct the supposedly classy woman he had married. But he thought better of it. He didn’t want another argument, not this morning. This morning he had more important things on his mind.

      ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ he continued, glancing at the Louis XV clock, yet another of Susanna’s expensive antiques. ‘Why aren’t you still in bed? You’re never up at this time in the morning.’

      ‘I have an appointment with Clifford Norton about the party next month. He goes on vacation this afternoon. This morning is the only time he could make.’ Her mouth nipped at a corner of the toast and she chewed it slowly and delicately. He grimaced. It irritated him the way she ate like a bird.

      ‘Not another party, Susanna,’ he moaned. ‘I’m sick of your constant parties. All those phoney people descending on us like a cloud of locusts. Give me a break. Haven’t we done our quota of entertaining for this year?’

      She gave him another icy stare but said nothing. He grabbed a warm croissant from a plate on the table and bit into it as he walked out of the room, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. He bounded up the wide staircase two at a time and almost collided with a maid. She was new, dark-skinned and attractive, and he smiled at her. He didn’t bother to learn their names any more, they changed so often.

      He padded through Susanna’s bedroom suite, which interconnected with his own. He hated the fact that they had separate rooms. He missed waking up next to her.

      It has been wonderful, once: to be aroused by the musky remnants of her expensive perfume, to touch the silky strands of her wayward hair, to caress with eager fingers the fine golden hair of her bush. But it hadn’t lasted long. He had realized early in their marriage, after a few cold and indifferent submissions, that Susanna loathed sex in the morning.

      And that had been the beginning of their growing apart; the start of what had eventually led to separate bedrooms. It had never excited him to have his women acquiescent. He wanted them eager for it, hungry enough to match his own appetite. His mind strayed to the good-looking maid he had encountered on the stairs. She had possibilities, he thought, and felt his penis stirring into life.

      He shook his head vigorously, shaking off thoughts of sex, then smiled to himself. The prospect of a fight always made him horny, and today at the meeting he expected there to be a bloody battle. It was important to keep his mind on business.

      Christina, he was certain, could be persuaded to stay out. She had Adam to look after now. Victoria, though, was going to need some careful handling. She always did …

      He showered and dressed in a sombre Armani suit, a blue shirt and silk paisley tie, then ran a comb lightly through his hair which, except for the distinguished wings of grey at the temples, was as thick and dark as it had always been.

      He smiled at himself in the mirror, showing a set of even white teeth. He felt good: alert and exhilarated, his veins pumping with adrenalin, anticipating the battle.

      He was sure he would win. Now, at last, he would gain control of Stephen Reece-Carlton’s business empire. His grin widened at the prospect – and at the thought that his triumph would have Stephen Reece-Carlton turning in his grave.

      Victoria surveyed herself in the full-length wardrobe mirror of room 263 of the Plaza Hotel.

      She saw a slender, stern-faced young woman whose braided blue Chanel suit matched her eyes to perfection. She had pinned her long, black hair into a chignon in order to emphasize the exquisite heart-shaped diamond pendant glittering at her throat.

      Tenderly, she touched the brilliant, six-carat stone and recalled the words that had been written in Stephen’s open, scrawling handwriting on the card accompanying it:

      When you wear this I’ll never be far away.

      Your ever adoring father.

      She felt the tears spring into her eyes and gripped the edge of the dressing-table, fighting to stay in control. He had given her the necklace only days before he had died. It had been his last gift.

      She fought back the tears. They threatened to mess up her mascara and she hadn’t time to start on her make-up again.

      ‘Come on, Vicky,’ she said softly to herself. ‘You’re Daddy’s girl. Do what he always told you to do. Come out fighting.’

      She smiled bravely at her reflection, pushing a wisp of stray hair out of her eyes, but inside she felt her heart breaking with the pain of his loss. She missed him so much. He had gone so suddenly, too soon for her to have learned all that he had to teach her: about winning people over, making them feel good, while all the time he was manipulating them for his own ends. About continued success and how not to grow complacent. Most of all about power.

      Victoria was twenty-one, rich and beautiful. In his will her father had left money in trust for her until she was twenty-five, more than enough to buy her anything she wanted. But none of that was enough. She wanted power.

      Now that her father was dead she saw herself as his natural successor. She had inherited much of his wealth, his good looks and his business acumen. She had also inherited his determination. And it was with that, the iron will she had seen him use so often, that she intended to wrest control of the one thing he had not left her – complete control of Platinum Resorts. Or rather – had not left her yet, she reminded herself. Today’s meeting was to determine the reassignment of her father’s shares. Antonio had been asked to attend, but she couldn’t believe that Stephen Reece-Carlton would have been so weak as to make the sentimental gesture of giving away shares to a business partner. No, Antonio’s presence was a mere formality, as was that of her trustee, Robert Leyton. Dear old Uncle Bob. Yet another man she could twist around her finger. Which left Christina.

      There was a fierce stabbing pain in the palm of her hands. Victoria looked down in surprise as blood seeped slowly down one wrist. At just the thought of her stepmother she had clenched her fists so tightly that her long nails had drawn blood. Maybe it was an omen? For the first time since her father’s death, Victoria smiled.

      The rain had turned Madison Avenue into a blocked artery of horn-sounding yellow cabs, all going nowhere.

      Antonio peered past his driver’s head at the immovable jam of vehicles stretching as far into the distance as he could see, then consulted his watch. He turned to stare at the pedestrians scurrying along СКАЧАТЬ