Chapter


Diana Verity looked at her reflection and smiled.

The mirror in her mother's bedroom was spotted
slightly with age round its antique frame, but nothing
could detract from the dazzling vision she saw there.
Diana was a lovely girl who had never looked lovelier. It
was marvellous to be a bride, but infinitely better to be a
young, beautiful one, wearing a dress which cost more
than some people made in a year, bedecked with minute
silk roses and hand-sewn crystals, carrying a bouquet
personally put together by the top florist in London. Her
hair gleamed like spun glass; John Frieda had opened just
for her, at an ungodly hour, and Joel himself had attended
to the choppy fringe that swung so delightfully under the
glittering tiara of Swarovski crystal, jet and cultured pearls
which kept her small veil in place. Diana had been
tempted by an all-over cathedral-length veil, but nothing
should be allowed to obscure the view of her dress for her
guests, not to mention the photographers from Tatler and Hello! who were massing outside the church.

You might as well not be married at all if nobody
could see how exquisite you looked: Perhaps the pictures
would even console Daddy for the colossal dent Diana
had put in his wallet. Basia Zarzycka gowns did not
come cheap.

'You look stunning, darling.'

Victoria Verity pursed thin, immaculately painted lips
and regarded her eldest daughter with a critical eye.
Diana was a gorgeous, selfish, spoiled butterfly, but today

all you noticed was the butterfly part. It cost Ernie, her fiance , a lot of money to keep Diana in the wonderfully
groomed, plucked and polished state to which she had
become accustomed, but Victoria had no doubt that
when he saw his bride Ernie would think she had been
worth every penny. A wedding day is trumpeted as the
most important in a bride's life, Vicky thought, and
maybe it is. But there is a certain type of groom for
whom the wedding is almost equally important. She
considered her future son-in-law with well-bred distaste.

Ernest Foxton was the bad boy of British publishing.
After ruthlessly trimming down one of Britain's oldest
imprints, firing staff en masse and pruning unprofitable
authors relentlessly from its list, he was heading across
the pond to America. Ernie had dual citizenship through
his mother, and now it had come in useful. He'd been
tapped to run Blakely's, the old-fashioned New York
house whose shareholders thought it needed a major
revamp. Ernest was a cut-throat businessman, Victoria
reflected, and he knew the value of a beautiful, graceful
English wife at his side as he networked through the
charity balls and opening nights that constituted Manhattan's
social scene. It was no surprise to her that a ring
had been produced, and a fast wedding arranged.

Diana had risen to the challenge. She had never used
her considerable brains - her mother felt sure they were
considerable, if only Di would dig them out - for
anything other than sneaking her way into the hottest
Alexander McQueen show, or snatching up the last
Prada limited-edition yellow calfskin handbag. She had
dropped out of college, and taken a job at Vogue as a
fashion assistant, accepting their minute wages and living
on the generous allowance Ernie provided. Victoria knew
Diana gave legendary dinner parties and was a bit of an 'It' girl. In snagging Ernie, her finest hour had come, and
her life, presumably, would be one long American edition

of Jennifer's Diary after another. With barely four
months' notice, Diana had managed to put together a
stellar guest list full of people she didn't care about, a
delightful reception at Brown's, spectacular flowers, a
string quartet and a handmade dress designed especially

for her. Ernie would be proud.

'It's not too bad, is it?'

Diana turned round this way and that, admiring the
tiny cap sleeves and almost indecently low bodice, the
plunging back covered with a Greek-goddess silk drape
and her white satin slippers stitched with delicate gold
thread.

'It's almost too much.'

Susie Amberson, Diana's chief bridesmaid and younger
cousin, gave Diana a jealous smile. It was so unfair that
she should look like this, her brown hair all silky and
gleaming her slim silhouette sparkling with white and
glittering like Cinderella. What on earth did Ernie see in
her? There was a rumour going round the girls that last
week Diana had flown into Manhattan just to get her
eyebrows plucked at the John Barret salon in Blooming
dales. The wedding was already the talk of London.
'Sophie Rhys-Jones went for subtlety. I thought that was so tasteful.'

'Darling.' Diana turned those luminous blue eyes on
her, which shehad emphasised with blue mascara, and
which still somehow managed to look natural. 'You
couldn't be more wrong. Minimalism is so over. So
nineties. It's all about modern-classics today.'

'Modern classics,' Susie said, with" a trace of sarcasm,
all she dared. After all, you couldn't be rude to the bride,
even if you were the maid of honour. Diana had chosen
the bridesmaids' outfits and they were a picture of subtle
"beauty; moss-green velvet, Empire-waisted gowns, with
tiny bouquets of pink rosebuds and small white clouds of
baby's breath and a white rose in full blossom pinned

into everyone's hair. Susie scowled. Even the satisfaction
of bitching that Diana had made her look like a heifer
was denied to her.

'That's right.' Diana spritzed herself lightly with rose
water - she would not use anything as unsubtle as a
perfume today. 'A wedding where people are formally
dressed. Full skirts and trains and veils and tiaras.
Classical waltzes instead of cheesy eighties disco. Did you
know I have an usher standing at the door who is passing
out carnations to any man that turns up without a
buttonhole?'

'How thoughtful,' Susie said nastily.

Diana gave her a blossoming smile, and Susie was left
with the unpleasant feeling that Diana found her bitchiness
amusing. She had meant to put a small fly in the
ointment, and had wound up only helping Diana enjoy
herself more. Which was just like Diana Verity: she never
did a stroke of work; she just floated through life. It was
obnoxious.

',I like to help people out when they are ignorant of the
right way to behave,' Diana said.

Susie flushed and picked up her bouquet. Bitch. She
hated Diana, from the tips of her satin slippers to the
elegant, perfectly plucked and now almost legendary
eyebrows.

'Hurry up, darling.' Victoria poked her head around
from behind the screen where she was getting changed
into her pink Chanel suit. 'We don't want to keep the
carriage waiting.'


Ernie Foxton sat in his home office and tapped at the
computer keys. It was a glorious, sunlit morning outside
in Chelsea, and his best man, resplendent in his morning
suit, was downstairs telling obscene jokes to the ushers.
But Ernie was oblivious to all this. He had the blinds
down, and the pristine creases in his trousers could only


4

be seen by the dull light of his computer screen. He was
online, checking his stocks. It was a morning ritual which
never changed. He saw no reason to change it now just
because he was getting married.

AOL was up again. Terrific. He had made over 4oo per
cent on that baby and had no intention of cashing it in
just yet. What else? His US trust had taken a small dive,
in line with the Dow, but he wasn't particularly concerned.
Ernie knew money and he knew the Dow only
went one way, upwards. That's if you were prepared to
wait a few months for the inevitable 'corrections' to right
themselves. It was only the pikers, the fools who had
blood instead of ice-water running through their veins,
who sold when things got a little bearish. Buy and hold
and you always make money.

He tapped a few letters on his keyboard. BLKY, the
sign for his new publishing firm. Good, it was up one and
an eighth, on the news that Grant Valentine had been
fired and he'd been appointed to replace him. That was
significant enough to impress his new bosses already,
before he'd even stepped out of Concorde, or introduced
his fragrant and deliciously decorative little wife. Ah yes.
Wife. Better not keep her waiting. He quickly sold some
cotton futures he wasn't sure about and bought a few
more shares in Blakely's. A celebration.

Things were good,, and they were going to stay that way.

Ernie switched off the computer and drew the curtains,
allowing daylight to flood info the. gloomy burgundy and
mahogany tones of the room. A glass of Krug was fizzing
pleasantly on the side of his desk, awaiting him. He
picked it up and sipped reflectively. Just a little something
to relax him before the ceremony. It was a bore, but you
had to go through it. Besides, Diana had reassured him
that the coverage was going to be fantastic. His pare.nts,
both dead now, had been a wide-boy city trader from the


5

East End of London and a cook at Chelsea FC. His
father's hard work and financial flair had made enough
money for Ernie to be sent to Eton, where he had learned
little academically, but enough snobbery to make him
violently ashamed of both of them. He'd worked like a
demon with an eye only for money and as a result he'd
made enough cash to wipe out the embarrassing stain of
his parentage. The wedding today would be attended by
a wonderful mixture of London society with enough titles
for Ascot, and a bride who was undeniably top drawer,
even if she had no money. Ernie didn't need money; he
needed what Diana could bring him. In New York she'd
be a marvellous asset. Just the right touch to complete his
profile. He was sure he'd made the right decision..

Ernie shut off his computer and walked down his solid
glass spiral staircase to where Gerald, his best man, a
colleague he didn't dislike too much, was waiting with
the ushers.

'Ready, old man?' Gerald asked him. 'Still enough time
to bolt.'

The lads chuckled.

'That'd be a bit messy.' Ernie grinned. 'And we'd miss
the booze-up afterwards.'

'True. Better get the car round.' Gerald adjusted his
buttonhole and went off to summon the chauffeur.

'You know, Susie's awfully cut up,' said Gerald's cousin
Harry. 'She always thought you were going to be hers.'

'Plenty of fillies champing at the bit, not just Susie,
thanks. Anyway, I'll be married, I won't be dead,' Ernie
said, winking. 'I'll need some time off for bad behaviour.'

They laughed, and went out to where the car was
waiting.


Diana leaned back in her carriage and waved, just like the
Queen. People stopped in the streets to cheer, watching a
bride in full rig drive past in a horse-drawn carriage,.and


6

she basked in the attention. Some of the men stared at the
creamy bosom spilling out over the tight bodice of her
gown and whistled and catcalled. She thought she liked
that most of all. Japanese tourists and the occasional
American stopped to take photographs of her, and she
tossed her veil back and gave them a dazzling smile - extra
specially whitened with cosmetic dentistry just last week,
so she looked like one of those American models.

So what if it was ridiculously extravagant? It was her
day to be extravagant. Daddy shouldn't complain about
the cost. Since she'd started dating Ernie he'd stopped
going on about settling down and getting a proper job,
thank God. She had a job. All right, not one that paid the
bills, but Ernie was doing that for her now. Diana
glanced to her right and saw a young woman striding
down t.owards Piccadilly, carrying a briefcase. She was
wearing a nice suit - tightly fitted and lemon yellow,
which always goes well with chestnut hair. Diana tried to
peg the designer. It looked like a Richard Tyler, almost,
but you didn't see too much of his stuff in London. LA
was his territory. Maybe it was, though. Anyway, what a
fool. Look at her, working all the hours God sends for
some feeble little salary. She's a good-looking girl, Diana
thought. Perhaps not quite as good-looking as me, but
then again, who is? She bit on her plump lower lip to
stop herself breaking out into an unattractive and
unladylike grin. She should hook herself a nice, rich
husband, and do things the old-fashioned way. They
might be at the start of a new millennium, but the old
ways never went out of style.

Her mother had squeezed her hand as she had helped
her up into the carriage, lifting the lower folds of her
dress, which Diana knew Susie was hoping would trail in
the gutter or something.

'You're sure you're doing the right thing, aren't You,
darling? I mean, you do love him, don't you?'

7


'Hush, Ma.' Diana gave her mother a peck on the
cheek, very lightly so her lipstick didn't smudge. 'Of
course I do. I love him madly, always will.'

She was pleased with that little diplomatic triumph. It
was what her mother wanted to hear, and it wasn't that much of a lie. Of course she loved Ernie. He was dashing
and he dressed beautifully, and he treated her so well.
He'd never denied her anything she wanted, and they had
a good time together. What more could you ask for?
What was that old saying? It was as easy to fall in love
with a rich man as a poor man. Diana had just seen to it
that she'd fallen in love with the first sort.

Her mother and father did pretty well. Dad was a lawyer
and had a nice practice in Lincoln's Inn. He had .put three
daughters through public school and had a pretty house in
Kent. But it wasn't the sort of life Diana wanted; she
needed more than the odd skiing holiday and riding
lessons, she wanted to shop haute couture and buy herself
diamond earrings, and fly first class, and holiday in the
Seychelles, or better still, Mustique, on a private island
somewhere. And she didn't see why she had to work like a
slave to get those things. The good Lord had blessed her
with beauty and style, and beauty and style were valuable.

I backed the right horse, Diana told herself, waving
and smiling. Traffic slowed to a halt to let her carriage
turn into St James's and there was t.he church up ahead,
a beautiful old Anglican pile of eighteenth-century honey
coloured elegance, with a gratifyingly large posse of
paparazzi parked right in front. Diana pulled her slim
shoulders back and rearranged a few folds of chiffon and
antique silk to give the best possible angle for the first
shots. The light was going to be perfect, too. Everything

was going to be perfect.

She started to sing.

'Going to the cha-pel, and I'm gonna get married...'

Chapter


Michael Cicero moved very slightly under his bedding. It
was hard to move a body like his lightly. He was built for
the boxing ring, not subtle ballerina-like shifts. But this
morning he was motivated to try to shuffle lightly out
of bed. For one thing, he had a hangover which was
threatening to blow up his skull, and he figured that if he
moved carefully enough, he might appease it. For
another, there was a naked girl in his bed. On the face of
it, that :was not too bad a way to wake up. The trouble
was, he couldn't remember her name.

He put his foot down gingerly on the bare hardwood
floors of the tiny apartment. Glancing to his right, he saw
two discarded rubbers about a foot from the bed. He
grinned. One less thing to worry about, he thought, as he
picked them up and threw them away. His place was
minute, and not in the smartest area of town, but he kept
it immaculately tidy. It was a matter of respecting
yourself. Michael was big on respect; it was part of being
Italian. He guessed it would be respectful to remember
this chick's name.

He scratched his dark head, but he still had no clue.
What was the last thing he remembered? The Five Leafed
Clover on Hudson, about 8 p.m., St Patrick's Day and
already a little buzzed. He must have picked her up there.
Maybe she was Irish. The whole of Manhattan got a little
bit Irish on March the seventeenth.

Michael padded to his bathroom, which was sectioned
off from the rest of his studio flat by a dark wooden


9

screen, and retrieved his robe. It was thick navy towelling.
He did not like to be seen nude in the mornings by
women he didn't know in any sense other than biblically.
Cicero wasn't vain, and he had no idea how good he
looked in the robe. The dark colour picked out his hazel eyes, a legacy from his French mother, rimmed with thick
black lashes that were pure Italian. He would never be a
pretty boy; his nose was crooked from where a Second Clan black belt had smashed up the bridge one Friday
night, and he was big, too, with weightlifter's arms and
thick kickboxer thighs. The type of teenage girl who
doted on Leonardo DiCaprio never looked twice at him.

But that was OK, because he didn't like them, either.
Michael liked women. Juicy, curvy girls like the one in
the bed. Her face was buried in the pillow, but she had a
nice handful of breasts and a gorgeous tight ass curving
out of a flat belly. He felt his groin stir slightly. Even
drunk, his radar for women was pretty good. She had
dyed hair, which he normally didn't like, but with a body
like .that, he could excuse the lapse.

The dehydration started to kick in. Michael took a
seltzer from the fridge and drank it straight down, barely
pausing for breath. He felt slightly more human, and set
the coffee pot to brew while he took a quick, quiet
shower. The girl was snoring softly; she had probably
been as out of it as he was. He shaved and looked at
himself in the small mirror, then dressed in a white shirt
and black suit. It wasn't perfect, but it fit. He had six
suits, all the same make and cut, three navy and three
black. That way you didn't have to worry about what
you wore in the mornings.

Michael liked efficiency, especially when he had to get
into work. It was his own firm, so nobody was going to
fire him; but that was no excuse for slacking. He reported
to the mirror, and Michael Cicero looked a tough boss.
He was thirty and was going to make his business work,

IO


or drop dead trying. It might be small, but it was still his.
He dressed and acted for what he wanted his publishing
firm to be.

The coffee finished perking as he fixed his cuff links.

'He got the shirts sent over from a woman in England, an
old girlfriend, married to another man now but still a
little in love with him. Michael preferred the European
style of shirts, with holes in the cuffs for links to pull
them together. He had to walk up six flights to his studio
apartment, but his shoes were shined once a week, his
hair was short, and his dress was as smart as it could be
without any real money.

You didn't mess with Michael Cicero, in his office or
out of it. He poured two mugs of hazelnut coffee, black and steaming, and took one over to the woman, shaking
her awske gently, holding the liquid under her nose.

'Wake up, sugar.' He grinned at his own foolishness.
You really didn't need a name at all. All girls had the
same name. Sugar, aka Baby. It worked with everyone
from old ladies to high-school cheerleaders.

'Ohh.' She groaned, and sat up, which made her small
tits sway in a manner that almost made him decide to be
late for work. 'Where am I?'

Michael wrapped her fingernails round the mug. They
were too long. He couldn't stand the vogue for girls to
have these take-your-eye-out monstrosities at the end of
their hands. He was. scratched all along his back, the soap
had stung this morning. Guess she had enjoyed herself.

'You're on Leonard Street, downtown between West
Broadway and I-Fadson.'

'Sure,' she said, uncertainly.

Her eyes focused and she gave a little start, like it was
coming back to her. Her nipples hardened into tiny pink
buds, and she drew back her shoulders and tossed her
long hair.

'Oh Mikey, you were so great. I don't think it's ever
been like that.'

He passed his rough hands over her skin, cupping her
breasts, and kissed each nipple. Hell, it was only polite.
She gave a delicious little shiver and threw back the
cotton sheets invitingly. There was a nice curve to her leg,
but her toenails were painted, which was a bad sign. She
was the kind of girl who was great to fuck, but not to
talk to.

'You flung me over your shoulder and carried me right
out of Mick Rooney's!' She giggled. 'You're very strong.'

Memory flooded back. Her name was Denise. Great.
He hadn't been wearing beer goggles last night, but
looked like he'd had beer earmuffs on. She was giggling
and pouting and she used a breathy, little-girl voice that
was very annoying.

'Thanks, Denise. You were great too.'

Her face fell. 'It's Elise.'

'I said Elise. But drink your coffee now, baby. I'd love

to stfiy and play but I have to get to work.'
'Can't you take the day off?'
'No,' Michael said, bluntly.

He was remembering the sex now. It had been OK;
he'd moved her around the room pretty good. She had
clutched and moaned at him. At the time he had hardly
noticed her scratching him.

Elise stood up and bent over, picking up her scattered
miniskirt and ankle boots and tight vest and jean jacket.
Michael moved closer to her and rubbed his hands over
her ass. She had a great ass, definitely. She was eager and

thrust back against him while he played with her.
'Can I see you again?'

'Sure. Get dressed, and I'll go get a pen.'

She obediently tugged on her clothes, not bothering to
take a shower. Michael winked at her as he made a. big


12.

show of writing the number down, then walked her to
the door, opening it firmly as she clutched at him.

Another ship in the night he never wanted to see again.
He drank a second straight mug of black coffee, letting it
'slightly scorch his throat to wake him up. He was late,
and he fought back the queasiness from the toxins
swimming around his system.

The early rush-hour traffic beeped and honked faintly
six floors below him. Welcome to another morning in
Manhattan.


Green Eggs Books was Michael's dream. His father had a
restaurant out on City Island, a popular place serving real
southern Italian food, no Caesar salads, just herby bread
and olive oil. He always left the bottle of Sambuca on the
table with the espresso when his customers were done. It
was a ral good business, and his gelati were famous
enough that he was thinking of adding an ice-cream
parlour to the trattoria. He could have used the help, but
Michael had doggedly gone his own path, so doggedly
that the old man had given up. He complained, but he
was proud. He liked the kid's bullheadedness.

The fact was that Michael Cicero, unexpectedly,
unusually, liked books. He had never read any as a kid;
his dad was big on softball but not so big on the local
library. When Michael's mother died of breast cancer, he
was only four, and his father had struggled to bring up
the boy and his two sisters and keep food on the table.
They shopped cheap for the lagt cuts of chicken and meat
that the stores discounted towards the end of the day,
and Francesco cooked everything up in a few pots and
the four of them dined like princes even though they lived
like paupers. One day an aunt dropped by the apartment,
and left a smoked ham and an old encyclopedia she
didn't want. Michael was bored, and he started to read.
Within a few months he had soaked up most of it. He


3

was like a sponge, and outpaced most of the kids at
Junior High School 24, a mundane name for a mundane
school in the Bronx. After that it was a scholarship to St
Jacob's and a mile walk with another on the bus, there
and back, every day. Michael loved it. He was out of the apartment, and he really got a chance to read. He had a
passion for stories. Ancient Roman histories, trarslations
of Alexander the Great, fantasies, novels. He read Les
Miserables in ten days straight, doing nothing but
reading, staying up sometimes till z a.m. using a candle
by his bedside instead of the flashlight which might have
alerted his dad.

College would have been nice but Michael was white
and male and free of obvious disabilities, unless you
counted a disastrous haircut and a passion for Kung-Fu
movies. He lost scholarship places to women with worse
grades than his, and his natural sexism deepened. There
were always enough girls hanging around for him to be
cocky and arrogant; though he was bookish he was also
tough. He didn't enjoy team sports because he was too
much of a loner, but he started curling his first weights at
nine years old and never really stopped.

When he was thirteen Michael took up karate. There
was no point wasting time with hockey and ball when the
school gang beat him up for his lunch money every
second day. Two months into his training, Michael
kicked the hell out of the ringleader, and never got
bothered again. He even beat up a few kids himself. If he
ever looked back he might have been ashamed, but
Michael didn't waste too much time examining his
conscience. That was then; that was life on the street.
Kick or be kicked.

The girls spoiled him. They did his homework, and
tidied up his room. He had a way of blunt speaking some
chicks seemed to enjoy. He paid on dates, even if a 'date'
consisted of a soda and a candy bar at the local Fiv.e and

I4


Dime, but he didn't compromise. If a girl complained
about his karate schedule, they broke up. It never
bothered Michael, because there was always another
honey right there to take her place.

He thought of women as weak and pretty, future wives
and mothers. He didn't mind if a girl was smart. In fact,
he couldn't stand stupidity. He wasn't great at the bar
pick-up game, because if a girl was stupid, Michael had
an irresistible urge to tell her so.

Last week he'd hit some place on the West Side with
his friend Big Steve who lived out in Westchester. Big
Steve was still teasing him about the way the chick of the
night had sat next to him, put her hand on his forearm
and, gazing into his eyes, spilled out the story of her
screwed-up life. Michael turned to her and said, 'You
know, I really don't want to hear your sob stories. I just
met you:' She was offended. Too bad. He was no good at
pretending to be interested in bullshit.

The fact that women took the scholarship places when
they had lower grades made him angry, but he took it on
the chin. Columbia offered him a place to read political
science, but he hated the attitude of the professors, so he
left. In the end he attended a local college, and worked
four jobs to pay for his tuition. His father hung Michael's
diploma on the kitchen wall in his restaurant. It meant
even more to Francesco than to Michael; his father had
been a peasant from Naples right off the boat, and now
his son was a Master of Arts. He backed off from the
restaurant idea. His daughters, Maria and Sophia, had
both made good marriages. Franesco was sure that
Michael would do well, too.

Michael had taken out a bank loan and founded a tiny
publishing company, for children's books, operating out
of the East Village. He had faith that there was a huge
market for children that just wasn't being reached. Kids
like himself, kids who would love to read if only they gbt


5

the opportunity, if they could be taught about letters by
something other than Sesame Street. The market was out
there for sure. He just had to find it.

He hired one assistant and talked to a friend from
college, Joe. Joe's father owned a printing press and
agreed to put out a small print run if Michael could come
up with something to print. That was the trouble. He
advertised for writers in the Village Voice, and got
flooded with rubbish, full of spelling mistakes and
grammatical errors. It was a huge mistake. Michael got
his phone number changed so he didn't waste all day
telling so-called children's novelists why their stuff
wasn't going to make it.

After two months he had impatient creditors, a bored
secretary, and not much time. The truth was, he knew
nothing about publishing.

Francesco gave him the idea that saved him.

'Sure, there's good stuff out there,' he said, considering
it pretty hard for a man who mostly read menus. 'It's just
mogt of the good writers are dead. They died hundreds of
years ago. Nobody writes like that any more.'

It was the answer. Michael bolted from his seat and
drove back to his office. He could re-issue children's
classics, and never have to pay the writers a cent. Edward
Lear was as dead as a dodo, and after a while his stuff
went into what was called 'public domain' - you didn't
have to pay for it. It took him a week to find Seth Green:
a smart, gay kid at NYU with a mad talent for drawing.
He knocked out a version of The Owl and the Pussycat in three days. Joe's father gave them a break on the

printing run, and Green Eggs had its first book.
Then all he had to do was sell it.

He didn't have a dollar for advertising, but he had
passion. Michael loaded up copies of Owl into a
knapsack and cycled round every kindergarten, and


x6

library in Manhattan. For every nine 'no's, he got one
'yes'. After a month he had sold every copy.

About now, Michael was earning just enough to pay
his assistant, his overheads and his rent, and even afford
'small luxuries like decent coffee. His big break could not
be far away. He knew it. He walked down the rickety
stairs of his pre-war apartment building to the street to
spend one more day looking for it.

I7


Chapter 3


Diana settled back against the black leather of the
chauffeur-driven Mercedes, squeezed her husband's
hand, and thought about New York.

Her things, what little there were of them, had already
been shipped: real lavender bags and other small
reminders of England, some new things from Chloe and
Hussein Chalwar, and her wedding dress, dry-cleaned,
boxed and pressed, to be presented perhaps to a daughter
should she and Ernie ever get a minute to themselves to
start working on one. Apart from that, she took very
little. Only the Prada and Chanel had survived the move.
Whlit more perfect excuse could you have to start your
wardrobe from scratch than emigrating to a new country?
Ernie was still buried in his new reports and balance
sheets for Blakely's and just signed off whatever Diana
wanted. And to conquer New York, nothing but the
latest stuff would do.

Her engagement ring, a not so subtle diamond rock,
now glittered next to a thin band of platinum. Diana
glanced down at it smugly. Her status had taken rather a
leap. She was now Diana Foxton, Mrs Ernest Foxton. In
fact, there was a large box of creamy Smythson's writing
paper in the boot, zipped away in her Gucci luggage
(Louis Vuitton was so yesterday) with her.new name
emblazoned all over it. Diana crossed her legs under her
sage-green Joseph suit, her string of pearls at her neck,
and tried to get used to it. To be honest, she preferred her
maiden name. A part of her missed being Diana V.erity.


x8

But that was silly; married women didn't keep their own
names, particularly when they weren't going to work.

'Do you think they'll have got our place ready,
.darling?' she asked. 'I need a really good bath when I get
off a plane. I always feel so sticky and bloated.'

'Course they will.' Ernie had his nose in a report and
answered her absently. 'I told you, the supervisor's hired
us a temporary maid. She'll have done everything, even
stocked the fridge.'

'I bet there won't be any bubble bath.' Diana pouted. 'I
should have stocked up before I left.'

'I can't be expected to sort out your toiletries,' Ernie
said, rather shortly.

'I know that, sweetie.'

Diana glanced out of the window as London swept
past and wondered how much she would miss it. Susie
had given her a big hug at the end of the reception at
Brown's, and told her the scene would never be the same.
She might miss Catherine Connor and Emma Norman,
her girlfriends who used to drink with her at the Groucho
and Soho House. But there were only so many times you
could go to the Met Bar, and that old Liam and Patsy,
Jude and Sadie, Tara and Tamara thing was just ...
played out. I want fun, Diana thought impetuously,
pushing her dark hair back from her blue eyes, sweeping
a soft hand finished with a plain French manicure across
delicate cheekbones dusted over with a sheer tinted
moisturiser and just a hint of bronzing powder. Her
reflection in the rear-view mirrbr showed that the Stila lip
gloss she had chosen for today was a definite improvement
on her old matt look. She resolved to wear nothing
but lip glosses from now on in. Or at least until she got
bored with them.

So the clubs were done. What about London's culture?
There was an awful lot of it, but what Londoner ever
bothered to go? The British Museum, the National

I9


Gallery ... just pretty piles of stone you drove past on
your way down to the King's Road. She might miss her
family, but Daddy had been pretty sour once the wedding
bills had finally come in, and Ma was still bugging her
about Ernie not being the right chap, and her sisters Iseult
and Camilla both thought she should get a job, which
was insanity, of course. Why should one get a job when
you could, instead, spend your days shopping and
lunching and having fun?

Diana batted away all the criticism. It was mostly
down to jealousy, anyway. Ernie was so dashing and so successful, the sad fact of the matter was they just
couldn't handle it.

Camilla was a lawyer and made about a hundred
grand a year, and had twins. She had absolutely no
fashion sense and lived south of the river, in a big
Victorian pile with a garden. Yet Ma was always holding
Milla up to her as some sort of shining example.

Diana remembered the farewell tea Milla had given her
yesterday afternoon in her garden. She had cried and
given Diana a big hug and offered her a slice of homemade
flapjack.

'But you'll be so bored in New York. You don't even
know anybody.'

'I'll make friends, Milla. I made lots of friends when I

moved to London. I'll just do it all over again.'
'Friends? That crowd you hang out with?'
'They are my friends, so don't be horrible.'

'I wonder how many of them you'll keep up with once
you reach Manhattan,' Milla said, rather shrewdly for

her.

'There are such things as phone lines. And think how
enjoyable it'll be in New York in spring. We'll throw lots
of dinner parties. You love throwing dinner parties.'

Milla looked out at her two terrors trying to dismantle
the oak tree in the garden. 'What about your job?'

2.0


Not everybody wants to work. I've rather had enough
of Vogue and, anyway, Ernie's going to pull some strings
in case I decide I do want to go back to it.'

Diana pushed a lock of chestnut hair back behind her
ers, in which new sapphi'e and ruby studs, a wedding
present from Ernie, glittered merrily. They were rather
flashy, but jewels were jewels. Her beloved husband was
actually making noises about getting her a part-time job, which was tiresome. She was hoping for a couple of years
off from fashion writing and ringing up designers telling
them what non-size Stella and Shalom were this week. It
was good in that one got the perks - free samples, big
discounts ... but she thought that, given a little time
with the ladies of New York, she would be getting the
perks without doing the work, which was just about the
story of her life.

'Well, t]aat's good, angel. In the end you'd get bored
with nothing to do.'

'Nothing to do? Oh Milla!'

Diana laughed, and for the millionth time her sister
marvelled at how bewitching she looked when she
smiled, lit up like Oxford Street before Christmas, the
beautiful white teeth and slightly imperfect nose and
sparkling eyes all crunched up together and simply
adorable. It was easy to see how London had fallen under
the spell of her incorrigible, layabout sister. If Milla had
any reservations, they were about Ernie. It was true that
he seemed devoted, and gave Di whatever she wanted.
Some men loved a high-maintenance girl. It was just that
Ernie didn't seem to appreciate Diana's ravishing smile
the way Milla would have wanted him to. He always
seemed a bit distracted. Oh well; perhaps that was just
his way.

She poured tea for her sister, stirring in milk and sugar
for herself and a slice of lemon for Diana. No doubts
about the wedding, though. What a triumph. All the'

'nasty little London scenesters who professed to love Di
had been absolutely seething with envy. And Diana had
been so gracious, kissing everybody, laughing so the
whole room lit up, making a point to forget no one, not
even the crusty old great-uncles Dad brought down from
Shropshire. She had danced the first dance - a lovely
stately waltz - and then later, had led the whole party in
a mad disco-dancing frenzy to 'Venus' by Bananaram/.
Ernie had moved around the room, smiling and getting
his picture taken, seemingly oblivious to all the boyfriends
and husbands casting longing looks at Diana. She
was so radiant, so charming, so discreetly flirtatious!
Milla sighed and bit into her flapjack. She'd miss her
sister. Diana was impossible, but impossible not to adore,
too. She started to tell Diana about the people she knew
in New York, watching her blue eyes glaze over. Milla's
girlfriends were lawyers and bankers; not the trophy wife
sort she supposed Diana would gravitate to.

Recalling the conversation, Diana smiled gently. Dear

Milla. If only she could get her to loosen up just a little
bit, how wonderful it would be! All that money, and no
time. to enjoy spending it. She glanced across at Ernie,
buried as he was in his report. What had her sister said
about him?

'The city's buzzing about Ernie.' Milla had been admiring
Diana's amazing trousseau before the wedding and
helping her select candidates for her going-away wardrobe.
There would be no honeymoon, as Ernie wanted to get to
his new job as quickly as possible, but Diana had said
lightly, 'Our whole lives will be a honeymoon,' so maybe

there was no cause to be concerned.

'Buzzing how?'

Diana picked up a cream silk shirt, wondering if it
would survive the trip. It contrasted so well with
everything from burgundy to eggshell blue. You really
couldn't do without cream silk and cotton. It gave you

neutrality without washing out your complexion the way
white tended to do. 'Nothing good, I hope.' She gave
Milla a quick glance and started to listen. Gossip about
Ernie! That was interesting. It was good to be marrying a
man who other people talked about.

'Blakely's picked him because he was ruthless at
Hatfield Books.'

'Businessmen should be ruthless, shouldn't they? Anyway,
under Ernie, profits went up. You can't deny that.'

'I don't, but people say he was still pretty cut-throat,
even by modern publishing standards. He fired over a
thousand people. He closed a printing operation--'

Diana shivered. She didn't like to think of people losing their jobs. 'He never told me that.'

'Why would he? I expect you didn't ask.'

'I don't know too much about his business. He
probably'hated having to do it.'

Milla recalled the nasty jokes that had circulated in Private Eye and decided not to share them with the bride
to be. Ernie Foxton had legendarily issued the P45s two
weeks before the Christmas party at Hatfield's London
offices so that the company's champagne bill would be
lower.

'A lot of authors who had been with Hatfield for years
were dropped, nd they stopped publishing poetry and
other prestigious books?

'Prestigious doesn't pay the bills.'

'I suppose that was Ernie's thinking. But it caused
waves,' Milla said, tentatively.

Diana frowned slightly with her beautifully shaped
brows. 'Well, I don't know about that. I imagine they
will find other work. Ernie's job was to make the

company profitable. I think he did all right, don't you?'
'He certainly did,' Milla said dryly.

Ernest Foxton ran such a tight ship they had given him
the nickname 'Captain Bligh'. The head of the sales forcel

3


who had been with Hatfield man and boy for twenty
years, had been called up to Ernie's office and given
twenty minutes to clear out of the building. The logo
which had been the company's signature for half a century
was instantly wiped out and replaced with bright neon colours that stood out on the shelves. New writers were
dropped from the list, old staples were cleared out
wholesale and mid-level authors lost the editors they had
relied on as Ernie fired some staff and rearranged others.
With the closure of the printworks, and the farming out of
printing to contractors, Ernie had personally eliminated
about a third of the workforce. Maybe it was necessary,
Milla thought, but did he have to be quite so brutal? The
horror stories were legion. Pack up your books and go,
and if you contact any of our writers we'll sue. Pregnant
women fired in their ninth month, lifelong company men
sacked and told not even to expect a bonus. The
atmosphere over at Hatfield had been just a little bit short
of France during the Reign of Terror. It was Ernie's
recolution, and it had been a corporate bloodbath.

Of course a few people had come out of it pretty well.
The shareholders loved Ernie: their moribund stock had
risen five and three-eighths. Then there were the superstar
blockbuster writers, the best-selling authors who now got
an even larger piece of the pie. And finally, there was
Ernie himself, who had shot up from middle.manager to
big cheese. He had been rewarded with stock options,
cash bonuses, a bigger office, a Lamborghini and, finally,
a new job from half a world away, offering him double
his salary. Ernie was a two-million-dollar-a-year executive
and he was only thirty-eight. The world was his
oyster now, and he could afford the delightful Diana, and
any other toys he might want.

'Well, there you go then. I expect most of the talk is
about how much money he made for the company.


2-4

People are too tied to tradition. All Ernie did was try to
give the place a facelift.'

'The company he's taking over in New York is going
to be a tougher proposition. They have a very prestigious
fiction list and publish a lot of well-loved popular
authors. I don't think they'll react the same way if Ernie
decides to go for slash and burn again.'

Diana selected a pair of Manolos that set off her outfit
perfectly and congratulated herself inwardly for her luck
in not having taken them down to the charity shop yet.

'Nobody loves businessmen, Milla, but they do love
results. Sometimes tough decisions have to be taken.
Ernie's a very kind soul, you know. He's already
discussed all the charities he thinks we should get
involved in in America.'

All the .most visible ones, Milla didn't say.

'I'm sure you're right. I just thought you'd want to
know what's being said.'

'And I do.' Diana gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. 'Of
course I do. You're a darling to warn me. I need to have
ammunition when the New York literary establishment
starts being horrible to my husband and making snide
jokes at parties. You need to look out for that sort of thing.
I'll watch his back, so he doesn't get insulted for twenty
minutes straight without knowing what's going on.'

'Sounds good. Now tell me about your place, again.'
'Central Park West,' Diana rhapsodised, 'mid
seventies, twelfth floor, extremely good building, the
committee turned down Barbra Streis.and two years ago
because they didn't want photographers hanging round...'

As she launched into her description of the glories
awaiting her just a stone's throw from Saks, Diana
seemed so perfectly happy that Milla allowed her worrying
inner voice to be quieted.

She can handle Ernie, Milla told herself. Diana can.
handle anything.

Chapter 4


I could like it here, Diana thought to herself. She lifted
the crystal flute of freshly pressed raspberry juice her
maid had brought her, and took another exploratory
stroll round their apartment. Huge windows almost as
high as the ceilings looked out over Central Park, and the
blue lake sparkled in the sun. Beyond that, even Harlem
looked peaceful from this distance. On the horizon, when
the sky was clear, like it was today, you could even make
out the blaze of colour that was Westchester County.
Ernie wanted her to go out to Westchester and find them
a little holiday cottage. All the Wall Street boys and Park
Avenue surgeons had places outside the city, and Mar
tha's Vineyard, Diana thought, was just too much of a
clich6. Ditto the Hamptons. Plus, there was the small
matter of Ernie's finances. He was rich - such a hit at
Blakely's already - but he didn't have real American
dollars, the kind that Calvin and Kelly Klein, Steven
Spielberg and Kate Capshaw possessed. Diana didn't
want something in the Hamptons if hers would be the
smallest place for miles around. She preferred to head out to Scarsdale or Bronxville, and find some rustic little gem
for the weekends. Westchester was full of city refugees her
new best friend, Felicity Metson, had told her it was
the second-richest county in America, after Beverly Hills.

It hadn't been too hard, settling in. Paul Gammon, the
chairman of the board at Blakely's, a crust.y old social
register stalwart who idolised the Brits, had thrown a
party for their second night in town. All very select, no


26

celebrities, just the money crowd. Diana had worn a
classically simple gown of pewter silk and the drop
diamond and citrine earrings Ernie had bought her the
day, she closed on their apartment; her make-up nothing
more than a slick of foundation and a whisper of
bronzer. She knew how to invoke the look of the old
money she had never really had, and it worked like a
charm. As Ernie boasted to the stock-market whizz-kids
about his overhead cuts back home, Diana worked the
wives. Business was so boring. It was much more fun
knowing how to spend money. And it was the wives sometimes
the mistresses, too - who held the key to
social acceptance here.

London had been a cakewalk, Diana thought, sipping
her juice. A few photo shoots here, some blue-blooded
relatives there, beauty and a rich husband. You could
shop divinely for three weeks around Bond Street and
never hit the same store twice. But grown-up exclusivity
was about more than velvet ropes and your name on a
guest list guarded by a gorilla in a tux. Americans had
their own way of doing things, and Diana intended to fit
in. The new girl in town needed all the perks of the
Manhattan elite: the secret phone numbers the top
restaurants gave out so that important customers always
got a table; the names of the best manicurists, masseuses,
dog-walkers and private shoppers; invitations to the right
galleries a.nd parties. Diana had a determined look in her
eye as she moved from group to group, in Mrs Gammon's
mahogany-panelled drawing room high above
Park Avenue. She offered little cards, collected names,
and promised a lunch here, a tea there. Ernie was a
publisher, and publishing still carried prestige in New
York. And, after all, women are curious creatures. Diana
knew they would want to check her out.

She planned her first two weeks like a general. Helen
Gammon had provided her guest list - of course Diana


z7

would do nothing so crass as to scrawl down phone
numbers at the party - and she worked her way through
it. A flurry of lunches, trips to the beauty parlour and
expeditions to Prada and DKNY followed. Some of the
ladies were fun, most were bitchy, all were rich, skinny and bored.


'I'd like to throw a party,' she announced that night when
Ernie returned.

Her husband looked at her absently. Diana had hardly
been around the house since they'd arrived, and that was
just fine by him. At work there was so much waste, so
many bodies not making the sales, not pulling their
weight. He was busy trying to work out who to fire first.
His revolution was blasting away the corporate cobwebs,
and that was exhilarating. Let Diana do her thing, as
long as she didn't bother him too much. She never had
when they were dating. Why should things change now
they were married?

. 'Party. Is it necessary?' Ernie sighed. 'I've got things to

do.'

'I know you do, darling. You're being so clever. But
things like that help with the business. You needn't plan
it, just keep the twenty-first free. And I'll need some
money, of course.'

'Surprise.' Ernie grunted.

Diana pouted. 'But darling, it'll be so impressive.'

It was the way to his heart; or at least to his wallet.
Ernie liked spending money where it showed. Fast cars,
flashy jewels. Maybe her engagement ring was just a little
vulgar, it was so large, but Diana had never complained
about it. Could a diamond really be too .big?

'All right.' Ernie nodded. 'Just one, then.' He ignored

his young wife's knowing smile. She thought one would
turn into two or three. But if he didn't like what she
produced, it wouldn't.


z8

At least Diana had come and asked for a budget. Some
American wives just spent first and asked questions later.
His girl knew better.

It's my way or the highway, Ernie thought, and
returned her smile with one of his own.

'Let's go into dinner.'


The dining room was a triumph. Diana had worked with
Richard Hesson himself, the hottest, campest interior
designer in the city. He was known for his uncompromisingly
masculine rooms, maybe to make up for his
uncompromisingly feminine looks, but who was she to
judge? The room was all dark woods, a heavy walnut
table from some eighteenth-century French farmhouse,
rich red toile de joie, and a scarlet carpet. The maid had
the table-laid for two, one at each end, with crisp Irish
linen napkins, small silver vases filled with creamy yellow
roses, and beeswax candles in antique silver candelabra
flickering invitingly. Diana almost sighed out loud with
contentment as she moved to the lower end of the table,
across from her husband. This was so... civilised. A lot
better than her grotty London flat. She was only missing
a little intimacy, and Ernie would probably get round to
it once he had stttled in more at the job.

'Tell me about your day,' she suggested, as Consuela
laid the appetiser before her; tiny baked potatoes served
with butter and flakes of truffle.

'Not much to tell.' Ernie forked the food into his
mouth, barely taking the time to taste it. 'Showing the
lads how to run a modern business. Lots of bullshit
talked in books.'

His wife nodded and waited for Consuela to uncork
the Merlot. They would eat quietly and then she could
probably get away with a long drawn-out bath and Friends while Ernie retired to his study, to trade stock


z9

on the Net or some such. Mentally Diana started to plan
her first party. She fully intended to make a splash here.

Ernie talked away at his wife, offering up anodyne
stories about his new offices, the incompetence of his
assistants. Nothing of real importance, but why should
he tell Diana about business? She wasn't the kind of girl
to give a damn. Sure, once in a while, a female came along
who understood money. Usually ugly ones, frustrated
types. Janet Jensen, a new underling of his, was a prime
example. Ernie tried to imagine Janet spending days
picking out the perfect duck-egg-blue trim for the guest
bathroom - impossible, the hatchet-faced old boot. Janet
types had brains; Diana types were arm ornaments and
then there were sluts, Ernie's favourite kind of girl.

After dinner, he gave his wife a brief peck on the cheek
before heading to his study. It wouldn't hurt for her to
butter up the Yanks. It was part of the reason he'd
slipped that three-carat Tiffany rock on her finger.

Ernie shut the thick mahogany door behind him.
Diana's touch in the office was more old-world subtlety;
dark greens, leather, a Persian rug, bookshelves crammed
with Victorian tomes that might have been in his family
for generations. It was a room his friends' fathers from
Eton might have had; a gentleman's library, complete
with a muted oil of some ancient dame in a riding habit
on the far wall. Ernie half loved and half loathed it. If he
had dug a little deeper, he might have recognised the
screaming sense of insecurity he always had around Di's
good breeding. But Ernie wasn't into digging deep. He
was into instant gratification.

His bride would be an hour or longer at her toilette. Ernie didn't want to disturb her. Who needed to see
women do their private, slightly revolting, stuff? Shaving
legs and armpits and plucking and waxing and filing...
it made him nauseous, thinking of women like that. Ernie
didn't think much of the traditional idolatry of the .female


3�

body. Most of them ran to fat, let themselves go, had
moles, hair and dimpled skin. Whatever his reputation as
a raider, he didn't have a matching one as a playboy like
so, many of the wide-boys kicking corporate ass in the big
city. He could get it up and he certainly got around.
Furthermore he realised that having the right woman was
important, like having the right car. That was why Ernie
had chosen Diana. She was the best, which was what he
had to hae. But she didn't do much for him.

Ernie slid his thin frame into the ancient leather
armchair and flicked on his computer, the only modern
touch in the room. His stocks came up, and he cast an eye
over his portfolio. How long could the Dow go on this
crazy run? Almost indefinitely, maybe. He couldn't
concentrate on trades tonight. His mind was running on
Blakely's:.not the sad, overpaid, underworked old warhorses,
company men since their early twenties, who he'd
fired today, but the PR girl from Hastings Inc., their new
contractors.

Mira Chen. She was probably twenty-five, but she
looked younger, apart from that icy, bitchy curve to her
lip. Thin as a rail with small, curved breasts which jutted
out at an unnatural angle, definitely fake. Their fakeness
aroused him. She was a girl who liked to show it off. Her
dresses were tight, dark, low-cut, worn with a jacket so
snug it made him wonder if she was wearing a corset.
Yeah ... a corset cutting off her blood-flow, pinching,
pushing the little apple boobs upwards, trying to make
something of them. Her long nhils were painted bright
red. How the hell she typed with them, he didn't know.
Mira's thin lips too were always scarlet. Ernie thought
about her pale, creamy skin, the eyebrows that she had
plucked so thin she had pencil up there in place of them.
It was a fake, painted look. He loved it.

What's more, as Mira shuffled her papers, and pre.
tended to listen to her boss giving the presentation, she


3x

ad looked over at Ernie. He was good at .reading the faces of his lackeys. Ms Chen was showing neither fear
nor agitation. Rather, the look she sent him was slow,
assessing and cruel. Ernie had found his throat drying up.
He had snuck a look at the skinny, muscular legs
protruding from the tight little tube of a skirt, encased in
see-through black hose, they tapered down to a pair of
high, arched heels, black, with little spiked metal stilettos.
It must hurt her feet to be crammed into those, he had
thought vaguely through the cloud of lust that enveloped
him. When the presentation finished, Ernie told Dick

Hastings, her boss, that they should meet again.

'I have more questions.'

'Let's rearrange,' Dick said, smoothly. 'Unfortunately I
have a three o'clock uptown.'

'No problem. One of your co-workers could probably
help me out. You.' Ernie turned to Mira. 'You're free
now, right?'

'Absolutely, Mr Foxton.' She had a nasal Brooklyn tint
to her voice, and she was eager. He imagined Mira was a
thrusting, grasping little bitch. The way her colleagues
glanced at her suggested to Ernie she wasn't well liked.
But she had a tiny, compact little ass, as flat as a boy's.
Who cared about popularity contests?

His gushing secretary showed out the other suits,
bowing and scraping, and Ernie shut the door behind
them, turning to Mira.

'Interesting presentation.'

'I noticed you were gripped,' Mira said.

Ernie scowled. He wasn't used to being sassed by
people at work, especially women. He opened his mouth
to rebuke her, but she held up one hand with those sharp
talons. 'I think public relations is very complex. I'd feel
more comfortable discussing this in a social setting. That
is, of course, if you found that acceptable, Mr Foxton.'

There it was again, that tightening in his groin. As he

hooked at her, Mira ran the tip of a pink tongue across
her glossy red lips. A coffee, Ernie thought. What could
that hurt? And he was the boss. Nobody would dare to
complain.

'I could probably give you half an hour,' he said,
briskly.

Mira's mouth curled up at the corners in a slow,
deliberate smile. She knew a mark when she saw one.
With some men it was written right across them, all she
ever needed to do was lay the bait. If a man didn't
respond, no harm done.

Ernest Foxton had a fearsome reputation for ruthlessness,
but he also had that thin, petty look about him that
usually meant only one thing.

He liked to be treated badly and dominated by women.
The gossip was that his wife was a stuck-up, spoiled,
ladylike little princess. She would be no threat. The seedy
clubs Mira went to were full of high-powered businessmen
with a weak streak somewhere deep inside that got
off on pain. Only last week she had been forced to finish
with her ex-boyfriend, the CEO of a Fortune 500
company, something to do with industrial machinery, or
some such. His wife had found out, which was too bad.
Mira had definitely been discreet, as long as the gifts kept
coming. Most likely the moron had shouted out her name
in his sleep. At any rate, the sugar daddy - sugar slave -
position was vacant. And if she knew men, Ernie Foxton
was a prime candidate to fill it.

'That would be great.' Mira stared at him coldly.
'There's a coffee place not far from here that I like.'

Without a word, Ernie gathered up his notes and
followed Mira out of his office. Through the opulently decorated lobby, she kept up a loud stream of chatter
about brand management and focus groups and Internet
presence. Ernie told his assistant they were stepping out
for a meeting. He wasn't listening to what the woman

lwas saying. His gaze kept trickling down her hard legs to
the spiked metal stilettos. He found his throat was dry.

She kept up the talking until they were a block away
from the coffee house. Ernie sprang to open the door for
her. She didn't thank him. She indicated a banquette
away from the window and he sat there, quietly. The
place was gloomy, although it was noon outside. Looking
up, Ernie saw that there were erotic prints set against
the black walls, x93os maybe, ink etchings of women -
semi-nude - with whips, restraining men. Homoerotic
pictures, too. The ambience was dark and, as he looked
around, he saw the patrons were well dressed, but
furtive. It felt secret and forbidden and terribly exciting.

A waiter materialised into view from nowhere and
turned to Mira.

'I'll have herbal tea. He'll take black coffee,' she said,
shortly.

As the man sidled off, Ernie looked at Mira. The
expression in her eyes was such that he didn't say a word.
He swallowed, dryly.

'I don't take my coffee black,' he muttered, after a while.
She looked him over with contempt and reached under
the table. Ernie felt her talons dig into his hand as she
grabbed it, waiting just a second to feel if there was any
resistance. Then his hand hit something cool and smooth
and firm. Her skinny thighs, as tight as a man's. He
gasped with excitement. His cock hardened, he was
suddenly afraid to move, afraid that anybody could pass
by and see the state of him. Damn, she was a bitch. And a
slut. His fingertips, squeezed so tight in her grip that the
blood was cut off, were feeling her pussy now. No

panties, and she was shaved totally smooth.

Ernie groaned.

'You'll take your coffee exactly how I tell you to take
it,' Mira hissed.

34


Chapter 5


The days rolled on, and Diana was satisfied. At least, she
kept telling herself that. Her little dinner parties, given
with lan and verve, were the talk of the town, not least
because Diana made sure to invite all the gossip columnists,
flattering them shamelessly. Ernie's business was
going well, too, from the looks of things. The stock price
of the company had risen after his first month in charge,
and that was all she wanted or needed to know. Diana
was more concerned with digging out the right - it was
her new favourite phrase. There were many stylists
dotted around the soaring skyscrapers, but Diana wanted
to find the right one - the man with the best razor cuts to
trim her long hair, to keep it glossy and perfect. The right dinner guests, the delicious mix of celebrities, socialites,
big businessmen, and one or two scandal-hit divorcees,
with perhaps a poverty-stricken but talented poet thrown
in somewhere. She had already picked the right decorator,
and with the help of her friends, she was aiming to
find the right everything. From pedicurists to psychics,
New York had its favourites - but, Diana thought,
sighing, it was so boring to follow the crowd. As if she
would be seen dead in a pashmina shawl, for example.
There was a very fine line between stylish and fashion
victim. Perhaps it was the incessant sameness of New
York moneyed life that had her ... well ... restless.

She was meeting Natasha, Jodie and Felicity at
L'Urbane, the newest hot spot, run by two Frenchwomen
who promised to steal all the crowds away from Bliss.


35

There was a three-month wait for an appointment, if you
were one of the peasants. My girlfriends don't fall into
that category, Diana thought smugly. And apparently the
hour-long oxygen facials would give you a complexion to
die for. She studied her own smooth skin in the mirror of
the solid-gold Cartier compact Ernie gave her after her
last dinner party got him a great write-up in the papers.
He was revelling in being a social lion, getting the kind of
acceptance in the States he could never get at home. Back
there, Diana thought, her husband would always be
second to her. It was the quietly inflexible class system
that Ernie would never be able to buck. In America, with .
the right kind of press, he could make it.

And America was all about status. Ernie drew a lot of
satisfaction from it, Diana mused, why couldn't she? She
was doing everything right. So what was missing? Love?
That was a fairy story girls should grow out of when they
grew out of Cinderella. The best thing you could hope for
was to find a guy who you got on with, who didn't
bother you overmuch, and who didn't paw you in bed.
She had no complaints about Ernie in that regard. Since
the job had kicked in, he hardly ever wanted sex, and
when he did, it was dutiful, fast and distasteful. Diana
gritted her teeth and just prayed he would keep away
from her. She'd read in Glamour that 80 per cent of
women never had an orgasm. Was that true? She looked
at her rich girlfriends' husbands and thought it might be.

Sex was for men. Sex for women was a huge myth. It
was better to seek real pleasure from life, Diana told
herself. She had a rich husband, a life of luxury, she was
young, and beautiful, and envied, and never had to do a
stroke of work. It was ... she grinned to herself softly
.. the American dream. The ennui would pass, she must
just be tired. A life of leisure could be exhausting. Maybe
this spa would be the thing to refresh her.

The limo pulled in smoothly to the kerb, her .driver


36

easily negotiating the Fifth Avenue traffic. L'Urbane's
frontage, a quietly opulent canopy of bronze silk, was
spread out to welcome her. Diana slid out of the car
while Richard held the door open for her. She tugged her
tailored jacket closer around her breasts, snugly encased
in La Perla mocha lace this morning, and gave a tiny
smile to the hot-dog vendor who whistled as she strutted
into the lobby.

The girls were waiting for her. Diana gave them a little
wave.

'Darlings, it's so good to see you.'

'Diana! At last.' Natasha stood, all skinny blonde
elegance, and moved to kiss the air at the side of her face.
Jodie and Felicity waggled manicured fingers and gave
her the small grimaces that passed for smiles among
many New York wives since the press broke the story
that smihag g.ave you wrinkles.
Natty Zuckerman was married to a press mogul, Jodie
Goodfriend to an investment banker, and Felicity Metson
was recently divorced from a real-estate magnate. Felicity
was the youngest of the three, just a little older than
Diana, and was her closest friend over here. She was
currently dating a US Marine major stationed at Fort
Hamilton, and liked to give Diana all the juicy gossip.
And wasn't gossip the best thing in the world - after a
nice designer sale at Bloomingdales?

'Shall we go in? It's the seaweed wrap to start with,'
Felicity said, eagerly.

'Sounds good.' Diana smiled at her friend, vaguely
aware that Jodie and Natasha sometimes gave Felicity a
hard time, just because she was divorced, which was
unfair, of course. Some people were just tolerated. Diana
tossed her newly platinum bob, her roots eliminated as of
nine this morning, her head covered in a glossy cloud of
corn-gold, shining hair.

'Ladies. Please to come this way.' A beautiful Indian

37


lady in a sari of rich crimson and gold appeared before
them, bowing low. The changing rooms were individual,
of course, and inlaid with mosaics on the floor. The taps
were gold-plated, and the countertop solid marble in pale
pink. L'Occitane shea butter and honeysuckle soap was
laid out for her, next to a crystal vase crammed with
roses and the delicate buds of actual honeysuckle blooms.
Wow, Diana thought. The Americans certainly know
how to pamper a woman.

She knew she ought to be thrilled at the thought of a
half-day of massage in the company of her girlfriends.
Impatient with herself, Diana struggled into her swimsuit
and shook her head. She would enjoy this. New things,
she found, always alleviated the boredom.


Michael Cicero stretched in the half light of dawn. His
arms felt like they were on fire. Three sets of curls with
thirty-pound weights had made his biceps scream, but he
gritted his teeth and forced himself through it. Exercise
was the physical stress that helped him cope with the
mental stress of running his company. Besides, he didn't
intend to allow his muscles to slide. Guys today, many of
them, looked like they could hardly lift a gallon of milk
without panting. Just because he wore a suit didn't mean
that he was going to go soft.

He pushed himself up lightly on the balls of his feet
and stepped into the shower. Getting up at 4 a.m. to
sneak out of a girl's apartment was tiring, but it had
some definite advantages. He didn't have to worry about
hustling her out while not appearing rude. The chick had
been attractive, too, Jessica, an old flame he called up
periodically, a grad student at NYU, one of those cool
chicks with an out-there CD collection and a nice line in
little leather backpacks. She wore her hair too short for
his taste, but she was very well endowed, and with those
tits bouncing towards him, he could forget other aesthetic


38

considerations. Jessie was ravenous in bed. She didn't
want a relationship and neither did he. He enjoyed her
simply, clutching her back as he thrust into her, making
her buck and wriggle, his hand gently trailing over her
pussy, teasing her while he thrust. Michael liked his
women responsive and took the time to make sure they
were. In his opinion there were no frigid women, just
lousy lovers. He grinned at his steamy reflection in the
bathroom mirror. Most guys were weak and couldn't hit
it. That helped him. When women found a guy who
could make them pant, they'd do anything for him.

He loved women. The trouble was, he reflected, that he
loved too many of them. Settling down with just one?
Impossible. Maybe, someday in the future. But if Michael
was honest, he sometimes doubted that day would ever
arrive. He shrugged and towelled himself off. Romance
wasn't hi style. He had work to do.

Outside his apartment it was very cold. New York's
snap into winter couldn't be far away. A bitter gust
whipped down from West Broadway and into his jacket.
Shivering, Michael ducked into the subway. Whatever
people said about the New York subway, it was warm.

He arrived at the office to find Susan already there.
Today she wore a smart, short red shirtdress that
buttoned up atorg the front, with a fitted jacket over it.
Jessica had concentrated his mind against her temptations,
though. Michael nodded a brisk good morning to
his assistant and asked for his schedule.

'You have a ten thirty uptown, at the Blakely's
headquarters, with a lunch to follow. And that's all
today, Mr Cicero.'

Michael had made it quite clear: in the office, it was
Mr Cicero from the staff - which was Susan, at this

point. Susan said to herself this was totally arrogant.
'You've got my files?'
'Right here, sir.'


39

She felt a little tingle in her skin as she said that. Her
nipples tightened sweetly. No wonder Leslie thought she
was on fire in bed lately, she spent her whole day at work
dreamily frustrated.

'Wish me luck,' Michael said, grinning at her.

Oh, my. Susan steadied herself with one manicured

hand. 'Oh, I do, Mr Cicero, really, I wish you the very
best of luck, there's no way you're not going to wow
them--'

'Thanks.' He cut her off, absently. She could see his

mind was already on the meeting. 'I'll get a cab on the

street. Make sure Seth has the artwork he needs, OK?'
'OK, Mr Cicero.' Susan sighed.
He walked out.


Damn, Michael thought. The chick this morning had
made him forget he had this meeting. He was getting old.
He walked hastily away from Zabanda's, so the moussaka
reek didn't cling to his suit, and jumped in a cab on
the corner of Madison. It was a pretty big morning this
morning. He had pitched their latest list to a new group
of buyers last week and got some good orders.., major
bookstores, even an order placed by Amazon.com. It
seemed that the clean, crisp, old-fashioned editions with
his own special typeface and sweet illustrations were
making waves.

He'd expected some interest from the big houses, and
he hadn't been disappointed. Everybody was singing the
same tune. Michael settled back into the black leather
seat, and got ready to wince at the fare. If he took any
one of these job offers, he wouldn't have to watch cab
fares ever again. They had different voices: the young,
hip, book mogul, the old lady known as a killer editor,
the crisp accounting type with the seductive figures. But
the trip was the same. Give up Green Eggs and work for
us. Commissioning editor, right off the bat. He co.uld pay


4o

off the student loan and stop dressing off the peg, Hell,
he could buy his own apartment on the West Side
someplace.

Michael turned them all down flat, even the lady who
cme to his office. Not interested. He didn't branch out
on his own so he could report to some other asshole. He
liked being called sir. He hated calling other men the
same thing. In fact, he refused to do it. Taking a salary?
That was for guys without balls. He was going to make
his own path.

The sixth call had been from Blakely's. Michael had
read about the changes there in a trade magazine, but he
hadn't paid any attention. What the big firms did
couldn't impact on Green Eggs, so why would he care?

Ernie Foxton, the new president, apparently had his
own ideas as to why Michael should care. In the call his
assistant had made last week, she hadn't mentioned a job
for Michael, no salaried post at all. Mr Foxton, she
informed him, wanted to talk about a 'joint venture'.

Michael was instantly suspicious. He had a tiny, two
person Mom and Pop outfit; he was just on the verge of
hiring a salesman to make it three people, and the biggest
publishing house in New York wanted to set up a joint
venture? Why?

But there was.no denying it. Blakely's were the big
time. If he could work something out ... Michael saw
financing. He saw distribution, not himself and his staff
of one in a beat-up old van but fleets of shiny new trucks.
He saw a national, not a local catchment area. He saw
printing costs plummeting. He saw ... he didn't know
what, it was cloaked in a vague, golden cloud.., a vision
of opportunity.

But he knew Ernie Foxton's reputation.

All he had to do was wow the toughest cookie in the
business.

41


Ernie relaxed in his burgundy leather Eames chair and
assessed the decor of his office. He liked the floor-to
ceiling sheer glass walls that gave him such a wonderful,
vertigo-inducing view of midtown. The traffic crawled
seventeen storeys below him, peaceful from his perspective,
dotted all over with the tiny yellow bugs that were
the New York taxis. He was an East End boy, and he was "
still trying to get used to the size of everything over here.

The buildings, the billboards, the tits on the women...
everything was bigger. The feng shui expert had been
round yesterday ... was that trickling Zen fountain in
the left-hand corner there to help wealth go in or bad
vibes go out? Ernie didn't care. He had a rockery in his
bloody office, designed by Zaban's, the most expensive
firm on the West Side. The rumour was they had a
commission for the renovation of the Kravis wing at the
Metropolitan Museum. He would drop the name at his
next dinner party, for sure.

Diana told him that, as usual, everybody had accepted.
He, Ernie Foxton, would host a gathering including two
fi;aanciers, one famous Vanity Fair writer, the Yankees'
third base coach - he hated baseball, but anything
Yankees was golden in New York - a supermodel and
... who else? A novelist or two? Whatever. Diana was
doing a wonderful job as hostess. Hopefully, she
wouldn't bat an eyelid when he turned up with Mira
Chen.

Ernie's groin stirred a little. Mira. He loved the way
she dressed, in those mean power suits and the three-inch
spike heels. He knew there was nothing above the holdup
stockings, either. It was so easy to imagine her in a
little Domino mask with a whip in her hand. Mmm
hmm. She'd be really cruel. She wore those heels to
advertise it. Even on a warm spring day, it was always
spikes for Mira, never slides or sandals. And waist
wrenching, tiny corsets under her tight iackets.

47.


It was indescribably thrilling. She gave him orders.
Ernie's cock was as hard as her smile. She took him out
to a dark, damp little club on East Thirty-Sixth Street,
where a succession of strict girls in black leather
hmiliated, leashed and aroused him. He wore a mask.
He was no longer the terror of his industry, the feared
hatchet man. He was just a slave grovelling around their
cruel, contemptuous, anonymous spikes. It was dirty and
sordid, and it aroused him in a way Diana had never
managed to do.

Sure, she was the perfect arm ornament. He wasn't
complaining. And as long as he could still see Mira ...

He'd had a headhunter poach her from her firm and
given her a commissioning editor's job over in popular
fiction. If there was any talk, he hadn't heard about it. A
smile curled round Ernie's lips. Frankly, he didn't think
anybody Xvould dare.

His phone blinked. He let it flicker for a few.seconds

before he picked it up.

'Yes, Marcia?'

'You asked for a reminder at ten fifteen, Mr Foxton.'
Ernie scratched his head. 'What is it this time?'
'Mr Michael Cicero. He's already waiting in the outer
lobby.'

'Let him wait.' Ernie loved to keep the little people
hanging. It reminded him of his power and impressed on
them how lucky they were to see him at all. He flipped
through his monogrammed leather day-planner. Oh,
right, of course - the Green Eggs guy, the possible corner.
Well, Blakely's - and himself - had courted the kid
assiduously. Now it was time to remind him just who the
big boys were in this scenario. He wanted Cicero on
board - but only on his terms.

'When it turns quarter to, you can send him in,' he told
Marcia.

Let him cool his heels for thirty minutes. Time for th4


43

poor man to appreciate the Degas in the lobby, and the
Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and imported French
petits-fours that they would be serving him. That was
what Blakely's could offer. He liked dangling the carrot,
to soften up his prey a little. And making him wait. It was
important to show the little people who was boss.

44


Chapter 6


'Show them in,' Ernie said, finally. He liked saying that.
It made him feel like a king granting an audience and that
was really what he was, in a way.

Marcia ushered in the courtiers. First came Peter
Davits, known as the Russian, an excellent number
cruncher, head of the business affairs department. Ernie
gave him his job so he could slash the jobs of others. No
point in carrying lots of fat. Close behind him, Janet
Jensen, a'n all-American girl and his closest ally in
restructuring the Blakely's list. Who needed to carry
poetry titles that never sold, to invest in young authors
and take silly risks with literary fiction? Nobody could
say that he, Ernie, carried no literary fiction. He did. He
carried authors that sold, just the same as he invested in
pulp romances that sold. He didn't believe in catering to
long and loyal readerships. To Ernie, a loyal readership
was one that-bought about three-quarters of a million copies per title - and anything upwards of that.

The screams of pain and anguish that had rattled about
his ears in London were being unleashed in New York,
but, ensconced in his glass palace up in the rarefied air of
the steel and concrete Manhattan canyons, Ernie did not
hear them. The PR department of Blakely's had their
orders. They issued nice blanket statements about modernising
the firm and not being fettered by the last
millennium's traditions. Ernie thought that last millennium
bit was a nice touch. He'd written it himself.

He cultivated the opinion makers with the chic parties;


45

lunches and dinners that Diana threw, and he was getting
pretty popular. Everybody wanted to come to his dinners.
Gradually the printed articles were tapering off. The Neu York Times and the Village Voice still shouted inky
columns of protest, but really, who cared? - old readers
he was no longer selling to, authors that he'd dropped,
and a few stick-in-the-mud journalists.

Ernie smiled at Peter and Janet and the flunkies they'd
brought along with them. He was retrieving the data
about Michael Cicero he'd stored away from the inner
filing drawer of his brain. A natural salesman with a nice
little list. Sometimes illustrations were all it took to make
a difference. Look at Dorling Kindersley. Zero to 90
million pounds in about five years, and still resistant to
imitators.

His kids' deprtment had being trying to copy Cicero's
style, without marked success. They kept coming up with
bright, friendly, Disneyfied illustrations whereas Cicero's
style was real old-fashioned ... it had a touch of
da.rkness, what his (now fired) children's commissioning
head had called 'the tangled forest'. Personally, Ernie
thought Blakely's own were just fine, and told them to
'make it a bit more evil'. But the villains still looked like
they walked out of Sesame Street. Ernie liked them, but
the buyers didn't.

Whatever Michael Cicero had, he wanted to get. And
he thought the other guys, offering him a salary, were
missing the big picture. Who wanted a salaried employee
who could walk out? What you wanted was the company.
That was where the big money was. Owning.

Of course, he wasn't about to tell Cicero that, nor
spend any serious money. As yet, the gUY just had
potential. But if he fulfilled that potential, Ernie Foxton
wanted to own him, to get him in so deep he could never
break the golden handcuffs.

'Everybody settled? Great.' He gave his little g.roup a

46

warm, conspiratorial grin. 'Let's bring him in. Softly
softly catchee monkey, remember.'


Michael flipped through his brief statistics - he only had
a year's worth - his blown-up illustrations, and his
customer lists. He told himself that getting angry would
serve no purpose. Maybe something urgent had come up.
Maybe this was how it always was in the big firms.
Possibly, even, Susan had gotten the time of the appointment
wrong. He told himself he knew he had a temper
and now was a good time to practise that control he'd
been meaning to get to.

His watch tick-ticked. He studied the painting. He
went over his presentation in his mind.

By the time he'd been kept waiting for ten minutes he
was very aggravated. By the time he'd been kept waiting
for twenty minutes he was angry.

At twenty-eight minutes, the president's .secretary
emerged from the outer office. Her office was bigger than
his entire firm. What Ernie Foxton's office was like he
could only imagine.

Cicero's gaze flickered lightly over the woman. She was
slender with a tiny waist and a very flat butt, which he
found unattractive. Her pantsuit was tan, with a matching,
tiny cashmere cardigan, neutral make-up, glossy hair
and a classic strand of.pearls. She was a pretty trophy,
the kind he could only dream about right now.

'Mr Cicero? Mr Foxton is ready for you now,' she
said, condescendingly.

She smiled down at him with a fake smile, and her eyes
swept over his suit. Cicero realised she was judging him
by it. He dressed off the peg; this wasn't designer, just a

plain suit. And the shoes, ditto.

He stood.

'It's eleven. Our appointment was for ten thirty.'
'Yes, I know. Mr Foxton had some other business he


47

had to take care of first. I'm sorry you had to wait.' She
snapped him another frosty smile.

'Thanks for the explanation. Good morning,' Michael

said. He gathered his materials together and turned
around, towards the elevators.

The fancy secretary was confused.

'Mr Foxton's office is that way.'

Michael glanced at her. 'I'm not going to Mr Foxton's
office.'

The girl panicked. Nobody had ever walked out of a
meeting with Ernie Foxton. Was he really going to leave?
'But - your meeting - sir,' she blurted, 'they're all waiting
for you.'

'Sorry. I have some other business to take care of,
Michael said.

The elevator doors hissed open, and he stepped inside

and pressed the button, ignoring her flustered cries of
protest.

He rode down and out into the street. Seventh Avenue

was a beeping, swarming madhouse, with glass and
coiacrete towers jabbing their long fingers into the sky.
Michael was immune to the delights of the scenery,
however. He clenched and unclenched his fingers as he
strode along. What had Blakely's been going to suggest?
Maybe he would never know. But one thing was for sure.
You didn't get respect by lying down and tattooing a big
'Welcome' on your back.

If they want me that bad, they'll call back, Michael
thought. He wasn't sure if that was true.or not. Maybe he
was insane. Maybe he'd just blown the biggest opportunity
of his young life.

He hit the nearest bar he could find and ordered an

early lunch. It was fifteen bucks for a burger and fries,
but they would serve him up a Jack Daniels on the rocks,
cold, fiery and nerve-settling.


48

Marcia had a fierce, whispered conference with her
assistant. It was not a pleasant conversation. Then she
had to push open the door to Ernie's office. He was
lounging around with Mr Davits and Ms Jensen and
several other big-shots she recognised. She dreaded
having to give him this news in front of them. Ernie

Foxton did not take kindly to public humiliation.
'Here he is,' Ernie said.

Marcia stammered, 'No sir. He just left.'

Ernie stared at her. 'What?'

'He said the appointment was at ten thirty,' Marcia
quavered.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a couple of the
lower-level execs bite their lips and look downwards.
They seemed highly amused, but they were hiding it real
carefully. Good idea. Mocking Ernie Foxton wasn't the

shortest'route to career advancement.

'Yes, it was. So what?'

'Jennifer explained to him that you had been detained
by business, sir, and he said he had business too, and he
got on the elevator, and--'

'OK. Right. That's enough.' Ernie held up one hand,
red-faced with annoyance. Everybody took his waiting
game treatment lying down. Who was this little prick,
exactly? Some .broke chancer from downtown? And he
was showing Ernie up in front of half the staff? He
swallowed hard. An unpleasant thought came into his
head - Michael Cicero making a deal with one of the
other big houses, and producing serious numbers, and the
story of how he, Foxton, had let him get away, spreading
right around the New York scene. Whispered little jokes
at his dinner parties. A snide remark from the Blakely's
chairman. An unfavourable line in one of the Wall Street
company analysts' reports. 'Has he got a cell phone? Go
look it up.'

'Yes, sir.'


49

'Hurry up.'

'Yes, sir,' Marcia blurted, and fled to her desk. Nobody
in the office dared look at him; for a moment, the only
sound was Marcia tapping frantically on her keyboard.
She ran back in. 'It's 97 555 455.'

'Get him for me. No, wait. I'll do it myself.'

Foxton punched in the number and forced himself to
smile, like this was just par for the course.

The waiter had just brought Michael's burger and
drink when the phone buzzed. He dipped a thick, chunky
French fry in mustard, bit down on it, and then picked
the phone up.

'Cicero,' he said.

'Hey, Mikey,' said a man's voice.

'It's Michael.'

The guy laughed warmly. 'Of course it is. Stupid of me.
Michael, this is Ernie Foxton. I'm really sorry I was
delayed earlier.'

'That's OK,' Michael said. He felt the adrenaline
crackle through him. He took a sip of JD.

'I was wondering if we could get you back in and see if
we can still swing this meeting. I think Blakely's has some
very exciting things to offer you. I have a good number of
our people here waiting to have a little chat with you.'

Michael glanced down at his burger. It was rare and
nicely bloody. The fries were home-cut, too, with sharp

mustard. And besides, he'd paid for it.

'That would be good,' he said.

'So we'll see you in ten minutes,' Foxton told him.

'No can do, Ernie. I'm having lunch. How about a half
hour?' Michael said easily.

There was a momentary silence on the other end.

'Right. Half an hour it is,' Ernie Foxton said, as
warmly as he could manage.

The phone clicked dead. Michael gazed down at his


5�

burger. It sure looked good. He was really going to enjoy
it.


'So what do you think?' Diana asked Claire Bryant.

Claire nodded. The newly laid terrace garden was
beautiful. 'I adore it,' she said simply. 'Another triumph
for you.'

Claire was the latest in the long lines of New York
wives and fianc4es to come calling, and Diana was
playing the polite hostess to perfection. Claire was an
heiress herself and had recently become engaged to Josh
Salzburg, the young Internet-stock king. She was unfailingly
good natured, well dressed, and interesting, but,
Diana reflected, there was something about Claire that
made her just a bit uneasy. Claire was interested in local
politics; Hillary Clinton and Rudy Giuliani duking it out
in New "York, that sort of thing. The race for the White
House just made Diana yawn. Plus, Claire actually read
the Wall Street Journal and dabbled in stocks. True, she
wasn't a workaholic; Diana loathed those hard-edged
New York women, the type of go-getting American girl
who just made her feel bad, and she only had them over
to her apartment on extreme sufferance. Sometimes the
wives of Ernie's top executives fell into that career-girl
category, and then, to her annoyance, Diana just couldn't
cut them. But Claire Bryant still seemed full of excess
energy. Diana had invited her out to the shopping
excursions, spas and Broadway matinees she attended
regularly with Jodie, Natasha and Felicity, but Claire was
busy half the time. Busy! What did that mean? Diana
wondered. Sure, Claire had a little interior design
business, but Diana just thought of that as another toy,
something to occupy her while Josh went out and made
the real money. Why couldn't Claire just relax with the
rest of the girls?

'You know, you really do have a flair for design. You

could work in that area. Why don't you consider it?'
Claire pressed, setting down her Limoges cup.

'I simply don't have the time, darling,' Diana said, a
little defensively. Claire always made her feel that way.
'Let me show you out. Give my love to Josh.'

'I will.' Claire kissed her warmly. 'Say hi to Ernie.'
When Claire had gone, Diana gazed out at the terrace
of her apartment and congratulated herself. Really,
Central Park West was the place to be. The view over the
leafy greens and blue splash of water was very soothing,
such a necessary contrast to the hustle and bustle of the
Big Apple. Actually, though, she thought she was fitting
in rather well.

It was easy for an Englishwoman to make a splash in
New York society. First, there was the accent, of course,
that had never hurt anybody. Diana found it conferred
cachet as soon as she opened her mouth. And she thought
she was very popular among all the young New York
wives ... she was something of a rarity, in that her
husband was not in his late forties or early fifties and on
the 'third model already. She liked to dress a little
unusually, too. Most of these ladies had abandoned the
big hair and shoulder pads of the eighties, but they were
still stuck on that social X-ray thing ... if the scale
showed a hundred and fifteen pounds they screamed and
went on a diet. And they were slaves to fashion.

Diana dressed differently. She had her own personal style which didn't pay attention .to what the designers
had in the stores. She loved to show off her firm curves
and wear court heels. Diana eschewed the itsy-bitsy skirt
and the designer sport-styled anoraks and went for a
94os look. Pure classic. Tight skirts which hugged the
firm curve of her bottom, neat jackets that sliced down to
her small waist over her larger bust, a softly waving,
sheeny-shiny Veronica Lake haircut. Of course, there
were some concessions to the Natty Zuckerman set;

Diana went blonde at Oribe's, and had her brows done
weekly at John Barrett. Crisp white shirts were her
trademark, along with a dinner-party menu that had
nothing fat-free on it - unless you counted vintage
'champagne. At first she had raised some brows, sure. But
when the husbands started to flirt, the wives started to
take notes.

Soon her proper little twin sets and neat, tweedy skirts
were the talk of the gossip columns. She was a regular in
Liz Smith's column and Heidi Kirsche's page, always
photographed in make-up by Chanel, with a little tote, or
a subtle clutch evening bag in the sweetest designer
gowns - long, always long.

She dressed like a princess and acted like one too. In a
matter of months, she had become one of the most
courted wives on the luncheon circuit. And as she fondly
thought; the most popular.
Her latest triumph was to redo the terrace. Surely Ernie
would be thrilled. It would be a perfect surprise. Jodie
Goodfriend had put her wise to that delightful Westches
ter gardening specialist, who, for a price, would make
house calls. And a few measly thousand later, she was
looking at an instant garden - a leafy oasis of potted
orange trees, entire beds of moss dotted with large balls
of stone, terracotta urns stuffed with exotic grasses and
shrubs, and delicate .silver bells strung between the
branches. Instant topiary hedges carved into balls and
arches covered the entrance, and the clever little gardening
man had promised her he would install some
climbing ivy and wisteria next wek.

Idly Diana flipped through her diary and looked for a
space. She wanted two or three girlfriends over to enjoy
this masterpiece. If it was a sunny day, they could have a
wonderful girly, gossipy lunch, under her orange tree in
full blossom.

Her phone buzzed and she reached for it. Ernie h/d

53


had extensions installed in every room in the place so that

she wouldn't have to dive for the receiver.

'Darling. It's me.'

Diana beamed. How nice, he was calling to check in on
her. His gestures of affection had waned a little of late.

'I have such a marvellous surprise for you, sweetheart.


'I'm sure it'll be fantastic, Di.' Ernie's common East
End accent was showing through. It grated on her. She
also knew it was a sure sign that something was seriously
bothering him; Ernie downplayed his origins to the best
of his ability. 'Look, I need you here. Got to put a little
dog-and-pony show together for someone.'

'But I've got a manicure at three. It takes for ever to get
an appointment with Marcus,' Diana said, disappointed.

He was snappy. 'I really couldn't care less. Get over
here, would you?'

'Who is this horrible man?'

Diana wanted to stamp her foot. It had taken her two
weeks to get a slot with Marcus and this was her first
time. Most likely he would take umbrage and not see her
for a month now. And all the girls were going to him.
Except her.

'Horrible is right. He's a little idiot. But we want to
land him. So be a good girl, and get yourself in a cab, all
right?' her husband said, and hung up.

Diana stamped her foot. Blast it. She dialled Marcus's
number and prepared to grovel. Meanwhile, she decided
that Ernie could be a royal pain in the arse. And who was
the odious guy cutting into her alone time?

I hate him already, Diana thought.

54


Chapter 7


Michael relaxed into his chair. It was hard, but extremely
comfortable, obviously custom made for Ernie's office.
Not the kind of furniture he'd have picked himself. He
didn't like showy, curvy chairs. For Michael Cicero a
chair was just there to be sat on, not to be noticed. This
little ergonomic number was just too accommodating, he
might get drowsy on the job and that would not be
acceptable.

Toda}, however, he permitted himself to enjoy it.
Today he was being worked on, not the other vcay round.

Ernie Foxton was standing in front of him, concluding
his presentation. The enthusiasm the Blakely's people had
shown for Green Eggs Books was amazing. It made him
feel like John Grisham, or something. He was taken
aback by how badly they wanted to get into bed with
him. Janet Jensen, the dark, intense little woman, and
Peter Davits who seemed smart, had given him the hard
sell for thirty minutes apiece. Janet's department was
enthusiastic about children's literature and talked movingly
about the lack of intelligent stuff for little kids to
sink their teeth into. Peter Davits calculated that they
could bring the company up millibns of dollars in net
worth in almost record time. His pitch was tough to
resist, too. There was streamlined distribution, with a
new fleet and a hungry sales force, apparently the best in
the business. Ernie told him about booksellers and the
global reach and mission Of Blakely's.

In summary, they were telling him he could be the next


55

Beatrix Potter. Amazing for children, and a multi
million-dollar industry at the same time.

'You have to go with us, Michael,' Ernie Foxton said.
His voice dripped sincerity. It was rough, and Michael
recognised him as the limey equivalent of blue-collar
made good. 'It'll be something new for New York. For
America. Kids deserve this kind of book, and not just the
lucky few who live round here. It's time to go professional
and stop fucking about. Don't you think so?
Excuse me, ladies.'

'Yeah, I guess I do. I'm really flattered you show so

much interest in the company,' Michael said, carefully.
Ernie gave him a warm grin.

'Not interest, mate, passion. Passion for books. Passion
for quality.'

'I need to think it over a little and discuss it with my
advisers.'

Ernie fought back a snort of laughter. His advisers?
Right, like this little prick had advisers. Instead, he tossed
him an oily smile.

'Don't take too long, all right? We truly believe Green
Eggs is the firm for us, but the chairman is keen to buy
something - if it isn't you it'll be somebody else. I don't
have the leeway I would like.'

'But the company?' Cicero asked, bluntly. Ernie noted
the square, stubborn set of the man's jaw, and swallowed.
The thickly muscled body made him nervous and
ill at ease, and Michael was some schlep, some years
younger than Ernie and over a million bucks poorer. He
detested the way Cicero looked at him as though they
were equals. Didn't he know who Ernie Foxton was?

'Not buy the company' - that was a slip of the tongue,
and Foxton chided himself- 'buy ourselves a partnership.
Think about this. All the other houses offered you a
salary. We are offering you partnership, because we
believe in you.'


56

Michael hesitated. He loved passion. The figures
sounded good. Was it a smart move to turn down a
winning lottery ticket? That's what this sounded like.

Ernie shook his head. 'No pressure right away. I'll send
'the suits back to the grind' - he flashed his troops a

charming smile - 'and you can come out with me and my
wife. We're a personal firm, here. Blakely's cares who it
deals with.'

'Sounds good.' Cicero extended a ridiculously firm
handshake to Ernie.

'Great. Great.' Damn it, Ernie thought, I got him. And
in about three months I'll have the firm, too. Once this
arrogant little bastard's taught us all we need to know.
'Diana's actually got a table for me over at the Russian
Tea Room. Come along and have a drink.'

'Sounds very good.' Michael relaxed.


The waiter deferentially ushered them to one of the
choicest banquettes in the house, and Michael tried to
ignore all the rubbernecking businessmen who were
leaning out from their tables and staring at Ernie and
himself. He understood that they were trying to figure
out who he was.

You haven't seen me before, he thought, thrilled, but
soon each and every one of you will know who I am.

'You can't let business encroach on your pleasure
time,' Ernie said genially. Michael couldn't have disagreed
more, but kept silent. The guy was making a lot of

money. He must know what-he was doing.

'There she is.'

Ernie waved at a female walking towards them. 'My
wife, Diana Foxton.'

'Excuse me, darling, I was just freshening up,' she said.
She leaned forwards and kissed the air at the side of her
husband's cheeks. 'And who's this?'

'Michael Cicero. A new business associate of ours. 'At


57

least, I hope so,' Ernie said. 'You'll thank me for
introducing you, Diana, it's somebody your own age to
talk to.'

Michael stared at her. He knew he was staring, but he
found it hard to stop. There was something so wonderfully,
vibrantly beautiful about the girl.., was it the arch
of her slightly thick brows, the daring comfort of the
tiny, perfect little sweater that draped over those stunningly
sexy breasts, that tilted upwards at him, almost
aggressively ... or could it be the sweet blue eyes and
lusciously shining platinum hair, that he longed to dive
into, just breathing in the clean scent of her shampoo?
She smelled of baby powder layered over the sweet
breath of perfume from her skin.

'Delighted, Mr Cicero. Or can I call you Michael?'
Diana smiled charmingly at the rude boy who was
staring at her. Honestly, did Americans have no manners
at all? She extended one hand in a delicate, wellbred
gesture.

Cicero shook it. His handshake was firm and dry.
Thee was a lot of power in his grip. He was a big, coarse
sort of man, Diana decided. Look at those muscles; he
must lift an awful lot of weights. She rarely met men of
this sort; they made her edgy. Cicero's dark eyes and
fighter's nose were too much, altogether. He was bristling
with testosterone. It was strange to see a man with a
body like that in a suit. Surely his natural job would be as
an extra in some Hollywood action flick, possibly
starring Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger? He
was shorter than Ernie, but so much stockier. And why
were his eyes raking over her tights and shoes? Was there
a run in them, or something?

Diana resisted the urge to look down and Check. Why
give him the satisfaction? Anyway, who cared what he
thought? A man like this would not appreciate the finer
points of fashion.


58

'Michael, please, Mrs Foxton,' he said.

The voice was deep, too, Diana thought, and coarse.
He was probably another working-class boy made good,
much like her husband. Oh, well, it didn't do to be
snobby. But he was so young for Ernie to be applying a
full court press.

'Then you must call me Diana, and that's settled,' she
said, bestowing a radiant smile on him.

They sat down to drinks for Diana and Michael, and a
light lunch for Ernie. He ordered beluga, and wolfed it
down like it was a hummus dip. Meanwhile, Michael
nursed an espresso and watched Diana while he talked
business to Foxton. He tried not to drool all over his
saucer, but keeping his control got a little easier as the
minutes passed. Michael didn't think he had ever met a
more beautiful and stylish girl, but, on the other hand,
he'd neer met a more vapid, stupid, spoiled little
princess, either. Listen to her. She was discussing landscape
gardeners and bitching about her so-called friends'
masseuses. The prices she was flinging around would
have paid the rent on his shitty little apartment for a
month.

'Excuse me.' Ernie stood up. 'My beeper has just gone. I have to get back to the office. Here, Michael.' He fished
in his well-cut laocket and handed over a business card; it
was stiff vellum, embossed with tiny gold letters. 'This is
Jack Fineman, my lawyer. He'll be able to help you out,
go through the figures and such like. I'll get a copy of the
contract messengered to you.'

'Thanks,' Michael said. He pocketed it, stood and
shook Ernie's hand. 'I'll be in touch.'

'Like I said, don't be too long. The chairman is
breaking my back to get a deal with somebody. We really
want it to be you.'

'I hear you.' Michael grinned at him, and then Foxton
was gone.


59

He looked across at Diana Foxton. She didn't seem
particularly thrilled to be stuck with him.

'I'll drink up and you can get going,' Michael said.
Diana arched a brow. She could, could she? Who did
this man think he was? Ernie had asked for the dog-and
pony show, and he'd got it - and surely she wasn't
required to lay it on any thicker. She felt a small wave of
resentment wash over her.

'Thank you. Very kind,' she said.

'Not that I mind spending the time with you,' Michael
added. Her tone was extremely cold. Stuck-up little
madam. He guessed it wouldn't do to tell her to grow up
and get a life.

'What a relief.' Diana arched her back a little, like a
cat. 'But I'm in no hurry. I missed several appointments
to be here and rushing out of the door won't change
anything,"

'That's bad. Really.' He was apologetic. 'It must have
been something important.'

'It was vital, actually. It takes for ever to get an
appointment with Marcus Walker,' Diana informed him,
frowning lightly.

'He's your doctor?'

'My manicurist,' Diana said, pouting.

Michael laughed. He couldn't help it. He squared his
shoulders and looked at her. 'For pity's sake, girl, listen
to yourself.'

'What do you mean?' Diana dmanded, stung.

'Your manicurist is hardly vital. Air's vital. Water's

vital. You need to get your priorities sorted out, lady.'
'My priority is to look good.'

'I'd say you've already achieved that.' Michael gave her
a lazy grin. 'Why don't you do something with your
brain?'

'I used my brain to make Marcus squeeze me into his


6o

client list,' Diana snapped, 'and thank you for the career
advice, but I think I've done just fine on my own.'

Cicero tried to make himself shut up, but he couldn't.
'Well, you've married a rich man. So I guess that's
mission accomplished.'

'You are an extremely rude person,' she said, drawing
herself up. Partly to frighten him with her superiority,
and partly because when he leaned forwards, she caught
the masculine scent of him, and those dark eyes were fixed on her. He was disturbingly unreconstructed. Over
the top button of his shirt she could see the thick wiry
hairs of his chest, curling up. Ernie was smooth as a baby
down there.

'I get that a lot.' Michael stood, his dark eyes still
boring down at her. He was angry at himself for losing
his temper, and angrier at her for being such a goddamn
bimbo. No woman was perfect; when you found one
with a decent body and a little elegance, she turned out to
be grasping and as dumb as a rock.

Maybe he'd even blown the deal. Cicero suddenly
wanted to get it signed before Ernie Foxton talked to his
wife. 'Here, allow me.' He pulled out his wallet and
slapped down a hundred.

Diana looked at the bill like it was something nasty
she'd found stuck to the sole of her shoe. She lifted it in
her long fingers and handed it back to him.

'I don't think so. I'm sure this place is a little rich for
your blood. Ernie would want me to settle up.'
Flushing, Michael took his-money back and left her
without another word.

What a stuck-up little bitch, he thought.


He hailed a cab on the street. Fifteen minutes later, he
was back in his office, and Susan greeted him with an
expectant look.

'Mr Cicero, welcome back. How did it ...'

6x

He turned to face her and her voice trailed off. He had
the slightly reddened face he got when he was truly angry

- and that was a real bad time to be around him.
'Not well.'

Susan didn't press the point. Timidly, she handed him
over the thick package that had been sitting on her desk
for an hour.

'Blakely's had this messengered over. They said it was
your contract.'

Michael ripped open the envelope and took out about
eighty pages of densely printed legalese. He fished the
embossed vellum card out of his pocket and tossed it to
his assistant.

'Get me Jack Fineman on the phone,' he said. 'Quick
as you can. We may not have much time.'

Once Diana Foxton went bitching to her husband, she
would blow this deal for him. Blakely's was offering a
partnership. Michael wanted to kick himself. Why
couldn't he just have kept his mouth shut around the
selfish, spoiled little princess?


Fineman was brisk and businesslike. 'I would love to
represent you in the matter, but I can't. Conflict of
interest.'

'Fair enough. Tell me who I should be talking to?'

'Let me see.., somebody skilled, not connected with
Ernie . . .'

And not too expensive, Michael felt like saying, but his
pride wouldn't let him.

'... Jane Grenouille, she's your woman. Grenouille
and Bifte, they have an office on Fifty-fourth. I recommend
her,' Fineman said warmly. He gave Cicero the
phone number. 'I can fax the contract over to her right
now, if you like. It's standard, shouldn't take too much of
her time. Oh, and Michael - Ernie Foxton already signed


62

it from his end, so if you countersign within twenty-four
hours it's nice and binding.'

'What if I delay beyond that time?'

'Then you need to get him to sign another copy. I guess
'they put a time limit on it in case another deal gets
worked out in the meantime and you force them into bed
with you.'

'Thank you,' Michael said quietly.

It never occurred to him to ask how Fineman knew
Ernie had signed the contract.

He rang Jane, who sounded young and vivacious and a
little ditsy, but seemed to have an excellent grasp on the
legalities. She suggested a few changes and told him he
should jump on it.

'We'll get a few things policed up, though.'

'Are they vital?'

Michael suddenly had an image of Diana Foxton going
home and sobbing on her husband's shoulders. If he
signed today, the deal was valid, and Ernie couldn't rip it
up.

'No. You'd lose the twenty-four-hour window by the
time we got the renegotiation back.'

'I'll get back to you in a little while,' Michael said.
He hung up and looked around his tiny office,
breathing in the wafts of moussaka and lamb with
minted yoghurt from the taverna. His print shook slightly
on the walls as the booming bass of the record store
leaked up through his basement.

He was hesitating. And why? Because he didn't like
Ernie and Diana.

But Ernie Foxton had promised him a partnership, not
a salary. They had offered up financials, editorial rights,
distribution, new offices and a sign-on bonus of a
hundred thousand dollars.

If he signed he would have a real company. If he
signed, he would have a real office. If he signed, he could


63

afford to take Diana Foxton out to a fancy restaurant,
and get a suit that people would not sneer at.

Michael visualised Diana's look of arrogant pity. He
took the contract and put it in his briefcase.

There was a timid knock on his door. Michael looked

up to see Susan Katz smiling at him breathlessly.
'So what do you think?' she asked.
Michael grinned.

'I think we're in business,' he said.

64


Chapter 8


In the half light of the early morning, Ernie Foxton woke
and looked at his wife. The first rays of dawn had slunk
across Manhattan, creeping up from the hustle of the
fishing nets and the fresh-produce markets, covering Wall
Street's bustling bankers all striving to be at their desks
before the other guy, until they were washing the sleek
high-rises of the skyscrapers and the elegant brownstones
round the Park. From his bedroom window, all he could
see was ky and greenery. Central Park was attractive, if
you liked nature, which Ernie didn't. And he had the
terrace garden his talented bride had thrown together.

Diana lay there, sprawled over his bed - he still didn't
think of it as their bed. Her long, dyed-blond hair was
gorgeously dishevelled on the satin pillowcases she'd
ordered so as not to tangle it. One hand was flung
sleepily over the cream silk sheets, manicured to perfection
with a simple French polish. Of course, Diana would
never go for anything .tarty like scarlet red talons, the
type that Mira liked to wear, that she wanted to rake
across his back. He longed to let her do it, but it would
leave a mark. Mira said he deserved it, that Ernie was a
naughty little boy who ought to be' punished. He felt a
twitch in his cock just thinking about her.

Ernie looked over Diana's body: slender, but still
curvy. He wasn't sure he quite liked the round, womanly
fullness of her hips and breasts, and her thighs weren't
pure muscle, like Mira's when she gripped the sides of his
back with them as she rode him like a pony.


65

What a turn on it was when Mira had sat next to him
at dinner and ground her spiked heel into his foot. There
was his young wife, such a good girl, in the flowing,
dusty-pink chiffon gown, sweeping round her ankles,
hair and make-up to a simple minimum, and then, when
he looked around, there was petite, boyish, cruel, brazen
Mira, in her outrageous little black number, no bra so
her hard nipples peeked through the fabric. Mira had
lowered her lashes and stared at him last night, all
through dinner. It was hard when he was trying to play
King of the Castle with all the movers and shakers, but
those black little pools had been merciless. It was like she
was daring him to look away from her. With Diana right
there. And when he'd had to, her cruel smile seemed to
promise the most delicious punishment.

They were going to meet up tonight, after work. Mira
didn't allow disobedience, hell no. The things she did to
him with that riding crop. But somehow she knew not to
let her commands interfere with his work. She liked the
little baubles and presents he gave her and she liked his
status. So when she ordered him, sharply, to be nude and
on his knees, blindfolded, in the club, she told him 7.3�
p.m. - enough time to pleasure her, and still be back at
the apartment in time for dinner.

His wife couldn't compete, how could she? Their sex
was dutiful, never passionate. Diana endured him and he
rarely made it with her, thinking about Mira when he did
so to get him off.

But Ernie wasn't discontent. Nobody could match
Diana as a housekeeper and hostess, when she wasn't
shopping for England. Her latest party had been a
wonderful success. He had a stack of gilt-edged envelopes
on his mantelpiece so thick she was almost a social
secretary. And other men looked at his wife with a kind
of glitter in their eyes, which made him happy. Ernie
loved having the toys that the other boys wanted. He


66

'worked' later at the office, to give him time with Mira,
and he came home to a lovely catered dinner, or a well
dressed Diana waiting patiently with their tickets to the
Met in one gloved hand. His friends' wives were all over
her, too. It meant she was a hit in New York. So he was,
all in all, quite satisfied, he told himself, regarding her
narrow waist and the firm curve of her behind without
wanting her. Diana was expensive, but she was great PR.
She reflected on him all the class he couldn't quite
manage himself. Yes, all in all, she was a great
investment.

The phone at his bedside purred softly. Diana's choice,
so that it wouldn't wake them too harshly in an
emergency.

He lifted the receiver. 'It's five to six in the morning,'
Ernie said, 'so I hope you've got a good reason for calling
this early.'

'I don't need a reason for anything I do.'

Oh man. It was Mira. Ernie sat up, his skinny body
excited, the silk sheets pooling around his groin. 'You
can't call here. You might wake my wife.'

'I can do anything I want to, you little worm. And stop
whispering.'

'I - I can't,' Ernie croaked, hoarsely. He glanced down
at Diana, looking at her body, her even breathing.

'Never mind about that, you simpering Brit moron. Be
at the corner of Sixth and Twelfth in thirty minutes. And
expect to be punished like you deserve. You do deserve it,
don't you?'

'Yes,' Ernie muttered, flushing. Hi dick was hard now.
'Louder.' Her sexy voice was a guttural hiss in his ear.
'Yes. Yes,' he breathed. 'Look. I'll be there.'

'You better be.' Mira smashed the receiver down, and
Ernie hung up, thrilled to his bones. What would she do
to him today? He guessed there was only one way to find
out. Gingerly, swinging his thin body away from Diana's


67

curves, he put his bare feet on the hardwood floor, and
padded across the polished mahogany to where his wife
had laid out his work outfit over a chair.

It took Ernie five minutes to shower, five minutes to

dress, and another thirty seconds to leave, closing the
apartment door softly behind him.

Only then did Diana Foxton open her beautiful,
shocked blue eyes.


How dare he? she asked herself.

It was the fiftieth time she had asked herself that
question that morning, and it was only 7 a.m. The maid
was silently spooning fresh summer-fruit compote into
Diana's crystal dish, and refilling her glass with pomegranate
juice and champagne, so she smiled sweetly and
pretended to be interested in Liz Post's column in the
paper as she played with the ivory spoon in her hazelnut
vanilla coffee. It didn't do to show emotion in front of
the help, but inside she was fuming. Diana's gaze
flickered from the newsprint she wasn't reading to the
springtime beauty of the Park that she wasn't taking in.

It had to be that strumpet who had embarrassed her

last night. Turning up in basic black was bad enough, but
in a dress so tight and tarty it belonged on a high-school
kid with a bad reputation? Diana had been so sweet to
her, too, sitting her next to Ernie - humph - what a rich
joke - and asking her questions about her boring work
she seemed so obsessed with. Why, she'd even tried to
give Mira some invaluable beauty advice, recommending
Clarins, Aveda and Bobbi Brown, to steer her off those
fire-engine reds and overly plucked brows. So flashy. So
eighties. And it would seem her husband - her newly wed
husband - the husband of Diana Foxton, the toast of
Manhattan - preferred that two-buck tramp!

What a humiliation! Could there be anything worse

than this? Diana wondered, absent-mindedly sipping the


68

mimosa she'd felt she needed for strength this morning.
Lying there, listening to him make a secret date with
some slut?

Diana scrutinised her reflection in the glass top of her
terrace breakfast table. It was puzzling. Was there
anything wrong with the face that stared back at her, the
smooth skin, the almond-shaped blue eyes, the pretty
little nose ... maybe the nose ... maybe it could be a
little more chiselled, a bit more modelly, but she'd always
assumed men liked the slight imperfections in the face
that made her, well, her. Were her eyebrows not arched
properly, were her teeth not bleached as bright as they
could be? She wouldn't second-guess her perfect sense of
style, but what, for goodness' sake, could make Ernie
prefer the tramp from last night to herself?

They'd been married for six blissful months now. Yes,
Diana irtsisted to herself, they had been six blissful
months. The wonderful parties, the celebratory dinners
over Ernie's latest business triumphs, her sensational redecoration of the apartment, the terrace garden, really,
everything. Except possibly the sex. Sex was a frightful
bore, when it came right down to it, but Diana didn't let
that raze her. Basically, she knew she was simply more
worldly wise than most of her fellow females, or maybe
more honest.

Women hated sex.

They had hated it since time immemorial. The clever
woman simply made allowances for the needs of men, let
them do whatever they wanted and tried not to protest
too much. After all, who really enjoced sex? Men. Men
had orgasms at the drop of a hat. All a man needed to
arouse him was friction.

Diana sipped her drink, watching the morning light
play on the fluted stem of the glass, allowing the bubbles
to fizzle against her tongue. They were using Cristal,
which was the current in vogue choice of the Yank set;


69

but which she thought was inferior, all things considered,
to Dom Perignon or Taittinger.

Yes, it was a pity that women were built so differently.
She had never met a woman who reached climax with
her man in bed, although the magazines were full of
articles about it, which were pie-in-the-sky lies as far as
Diana was concerned. What women did in bed was sigh,
cry and lie, and watch the minutes - or seconds, in
Ernie's case - go by. Sex, after all, was what men liked,
and it was a price a girl knew she had to pay.

Diana detested sex. It was like a bad boyfriend - all
promises and then all let downs. Sometimes, not often,
but sometimes, you would get a bit excited, get that
nervous, squirmy, edgy feeling in your belly, get slightly
damp in that secret place between the legs. And then you
went to bed with him, and you wound up frustrated and
angry, lying there trying to get his big heap of a sweating,
smelling body off your body and your aching nipples.

It had been that way with Jack, the naval second
lieutenant who had been her first boyfriend. At least
Ernie didn't frustrate her, because he never even aroused
her in the first place.

The best part of married sex, Diana thought viciously,
was when Ernie rolled over and went to sleep. Of course,
it only lasted a few seconds. Then he started snoring.

But could Ernie get better from somebody else? He was
nothing himself in the sexual stakes. Huffing and puffing
and grunting and making dea.th's-head rictus faces.
Maybe the other girl was a better faker than she was.
Frankly, Diana found it just silly to lie there moaning like
Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. If she started all
that, she'd just burst into giggles, which would make
Ernie's unimpressive penis do a nice impression of a soft,
floppy worm.

Diana tried to imagine Ernie with another woman.
Was she jealous? Not exactly, she decided. She was. angry

7�


though, very, very angry, she had never complained
about his aggravating sexual antics. She had been an
ideal hostess. And this, this was how he repaid her - his
new bride!

'Consuela,' she said.

'Yes, Senora Foxton.'

'Could you bring me my cellular phone and my diary?'

'Right away, Senora Foxton,' her maid said, hurrying
off.

Diana clenched her fist and angrily dive bombed her
spoon into her compote in childish resentment. Ernie
might think he could get away with treating her like a
silly little fool, but he was sorely" mistaken. She had
friends here, too. And she was going to hold a council of
war. No way was she losing her man to some two-bit
little American whore.


'Darling, it's so good to see you.'

Natasha Zuckerman kissed the air on both sides of
Diana's cheeks. 'Not a moment too soon, either. Felicity
and Jodie were wondering what happened.'

'Gridlock,' Diana murmured, 'so sorry to have kept you.'

She had summoned the three ladies best suited to give
her advice, Diana congratulated herself. Natasha and
Jodie were happily married to big businessmen, and
Felicity was divorced - something she could help Diana
prevent. She'd thought about asking Claire Bryant, too,
but had decided against it. Claire had a bit of a feminist
streak, the side of her that made Diana uncomfortable. She tossed her head arrogantly. Claire Bryant would just
tell her to confront him, get a divorce. Diana didn't want
to hear that.

These girls would tell her what she did want to hear.
"Not at all,' Natasha purred. 'It's murder trying to get'

71


down to the Village at lunchtimes. But my spirits are
restored because you chose Mono.'

'The food's terrific and it's all herbs, hardly any fat.'
Privately Diana thought her friend could use a little
meat on her skinny hips, but she didn't want to belabour
the point. It was much easier to get the girls out at the
last minute if you could find somewhere that had decent
low-fat cooking, even though as they only ever had salads
and breadsticks it really didn't matter where she chose.

'Wonderful to see you all.' Kisses were exchanged, and
Diana saw everybody was sipping Perrier water. To hell
with it, she thought, ordering up a nice glass of
Chardonnay big enough to bathe in.

'Sweetie.' Jodie looked very concerned. 'All the
urgency, and the last minute - what on erth has
happened?'

'Something awful.' The wine came, and Diana took a

big gulp. 'I need your advice.'

'Your personal organiser crashed.'

'Your maid has been taping your cellular calls.'

"'The IRS want to investigate Ernie,' Jodie suggested
excitedly.

'No. It's much worse than that.'

'What could be worse than the IRS?' Felicity said,
horrified.

'I think Ernie's having an affair,' Diana muttered.

There was a shocked silence. And then, to her
amazement, all three of her girlfriends started to laugh.

'What's so funny? I don't get it,' Diana said, rather
offended.

'Oh, don't look like that, darling,' Jodie said, patting

her hand reassuringly. 'It's nothing, really, except we
assumed you knew. Of course Ernie's having an affair.
Everybody knows that.'

'Well, I'm shocked. I think it's just awful of Ernie to be
sneaking around behind your back,' Jodie sniffed. 'I

rather assumed you knew as well. People thought the two
of you had an open marriage.'

'An open marriage!' Diana said, flushing bright pink
with shame. 'Of course not!'

'Well.' Felicity put her water glass down with a
determined thud. 'Seeing as you don't know, Di, somebody's
got to tell you. It's not just an affair. It's affairs.
Ernie's a womaniser. Everybody knew about it.'

'Everybody except me,' Diana said.

73


Chapter 9


Diana smiled, chewed her food precisely, pushed her
salad around her plate, and tried hard not to display too
much emotion in front of her friends.

'But, angel, it's Mira Chen at his office. They are
always working late. My maid's husband knows one of
the cleaners over at Blakely's,' Natasha told her.

Felicity made an angry stabbing motion in the ir with
her fork. 'And before Mira wasn't it Henrietta Johnson?'

'Maurice Johnson's wife?' Diana asked, amazed. The
Johnsons were bankers and had moved to Miami last
month. Luckily for them, she thought. To think she'd
p!ayed tennis with Henrietta in that tournament on Long
Island. And all the time she really wanted a set of mixed
doubles with Ernie!

'But of course. She had nothing to lose. Very discreet,
but I knew the signs,' Natty added.

'We thought you did, of course, or we'd have said
something.'

Diana pushed her hair out of her eyes. 'If I'd known,
wouldn't I have done something?'

'I don't see why,' Jodie said judiciously. 'So many
hubbies do it. It leaves us girls free to make our own
arrangements.'

They seemed so calm and collected. Diana didn't want
to seem overly naive. Maybe this was just the way of it in
America.

'Isn't that awfully cynical?' she said.

'I prefer to say practical,' Natasha pronounced.


74

Diana took another sip of her wine. 'Do your husbands
stray like that?'

Shocked heads shook. 'Of course not, darling,' Jodi'e
said, with a touch of smugness. 'He's got no reason to.'

Diana blushed; she suddenly felt her inexperience, and
her foreignness, and, strangely for her, an unpleasant
little wash of failure. She was furious at Ernie for
exposing her to pity. Thank goodness I've got my
girlfriends, she told herself. People I can rely on.

'Maybe you spend too much time at home, sweetie.'
Natasha signalled for the check. 'No, no, let me, I insist,
you're having an awful day. Too bad to find this out.
And so long after it started, too.'

'We're always here for you,' Felicity said softly, giving
Diana a warm hug.

'Call if you need anything,' Jodie pressed. 'Anything at
all.'
And with a lot of air kisses and warm pressings on her
arm, they suddenly melted into the sunshine.

Diana stood for a moment watching her friends leave.
She felt such a fool. Grateful to them, of course, but what
a silly girl she'd been. Maybe she had been wilfully blind
to it. Ignored all the girls that liked to drape themselves
over Ernie's arm at her parties. He'd been very receptive,
but she'd thought it was just flirting. After all, in
England, what mistress would be so crass as to hit on a
husband at a dinner party in his own home, in the
presence of his wife?

She absently retrieved her coat and overtipped the
coat-check girl.

'Shall I get you a cab, ma'am?' the maitre d' was
asking.

She glanced at him, not noticing the glitter in his eyes
as they swept her form in the silk shantung dress that was
tight in all the right places.

'No thanks. I'll walk.' She smiled. No need to advertise


75

to the whole world how she was feeling. Diana went
through the door another man held open for her, hardly
even looking where she was going. She needed to walk
round and gather her thoughts.

Tears prickled in her eyes. Obviously she was not the
prize she had imagined. How it hurt to hear Jodie saying
of course her man would not stray, he had no need to.
But Ernie had felt that need.

What on earth could Mira Chen and Henrietta Johnson
and all those other tarts, Diana thought viciously, do
for her husband that she couldn't? A sullen fury took
hold of her as she marched along the street. Maybe it was
the fact that she was too easy to please, always there.
Surely Ernie had lied to her when he said that he liked the
idea of a traditional wife. Talking to Jodie and the others,
a traditional wife seemed to be one who let her husband
screw around without making a fuss, while she did the
same - except that their husbands were somehow exempt
from this rule.

In the future she thought she would confide more in
Felicity. Felicity had been through a divorce and was
single now, she couldn't triumph over Diana. Oh stop,
she chided herself, they were being supportive, trying to
help you. She wanted to believe that, so she told herself it
was true.

Well, I've done my wifely duty, Diana thought, getting
angrier by the second. I've thrown his parties and
entertained his contacts, I've dressed perfectly, I decorated
his house, hired his servants and fucked him whenever
he asked for it. And I refuse to lose him to some
trampy little slut. I don't see why I should sit at home
while he fakes his meetings like I fake my orgasms. I can
work too, if that's what he likes. I can get a job. I could--

Here her imagination failed her, and she stamped her
foot in the street. A few Japanese tourists gigg!ed and


76

stared like she was a mad bag lady. Diana pouted and
hailed a cab.


'No, of course I don't think you're crazy,' Milla soothed

her.

The long-distance line was crackly, and there was the
sound of screaming children in the background, and a
hissing noise like something was cooking on the stove.
What right, Diana thought, did Milla have to sound so
happy and contented all the time? She weighed a good
ten pounds too much, she wasn't even married to
somebody rich and she worked like a slave.

'I've always said you should get a job. It helps
concentrate the mind. There has to be more to life than
shopping.' ,

'I don't see why,' Diana said mutinously.

'And Erlie may not be cheating on you after all. These women don't sound like such good friends to me. They
sound jealous.'

'They're not jealous. I trust them.'

'Well, that's very nice, sweetheart. Mary, stop that,
please. Put it down, it's supper in just a second. But
consider how quick they were to give you all those
names. Pretending to be sorry for you when actually they

were just gloating.'

'Milla--'

'All right,' her big sister said gently, 'just remember,
you can do anything you put your mind to. You worked
at Vogue. Maybe you could do-something along those
lines over there.'

'That's a great idea. It would put me right back on the
cutting edge,' Diana mused.

'Of course it is. Anyway, I have to go, because the
potatoes are boiling over. And just don't trust those
women. God bless, darling.'

'God bless.' Diana blew Milla a kiss and hung up.


77

Somehow she always felt better after talking to her sister.
Ernie would see her differently once she was working
again. And the great thing was, she could take a job at a
very low salary indeed.

She looked round her husband's den, with the extensive
his and hers Rolodexes. Somewhere among those
exclusive hairdressers and flavour-of-the-month manicurists
were her old numbers from London; if she made
a few calls she could get an excellent list of contacts and
just go from there. Within a week, Diana exulted, I'll
have a wonderful job and he won't be so certain of me
any more.

She pressed the kitchen buzzer and told the cook to
make duck /i l'orange, Ernie's favourite, for. dinner
tonight. No need for a big scene. She hadn't got her job
lined up yet. Besides, Milla was probably oo per cent
right. Ernie was faithful. Diana decided that maybe she'd
misunderstood the call this morning. Maybe it was a business acquaintance. Ernie loved to make money, and
sfie loved him to make money. I can't blame him for
working hard, Diana said sedately to herself. She looked
around the opulent, barely used little den, and past the
mahogany walking-cane case out to her flagstone-floored
hallway, with its gilt-framed paintings and subtle sconce
-lights on the walls. She was living in paradise here. Why
rock the boat?


'But I don't understand,' Diana protested. The managing
editor's office was immaculately decorated in tasteful
white, with framed covers and black and white photographs
of models. 'You've seen my portfoliO of work for Vogue. Why isn't there anything for me?'

'I keep trying to tell you, Mrs Foxton.' Kathy Lybrand

leaned forwards, her long-nailed bony fingers folded one

over the other. 'We prefer single girls here at City


78

Woman, and besides, you're about five years too old for

OLlr magazine.'

Diana swallowed both her anger and her pride. Ste
was getting the run-around, and it had been the same
way at American Vogue, Glamour, Marie Claire, Elle and all the other major fashion mags that she had
targeted over the last fruitless week. She, Diana Foxton,
was 'too old'. At twenty-nine! She wasn't about to go
crawling to some old mumsy Redbook or Family Circle type thing. Besides which, Diana had a sinking feeling
that, even if she changed her mind, the answer there
would still be no.

'Can I be frank?'

'Certainly,' Diana snapped. 'Why stop now?'

Kathy gave her the smile of a feeding cobra and
ploughed .right on. 'You're a society wife, Mrs Foxton,
and that's just great for you. At City Woman we like our
assistants to be hungry, ambitious and driven.'

'I'm driven,' Diana said, annoyed.

'Yes - by your chauffeur.' Kathy chuckled at her own
joke. 'It's hard to find a girl who's excited about sweating
her way up to a contributing editor position on thirty to
forty thousand a year when that's about your yearly
budget for clothes.'

My yearly budget for clothes is a lot more than that,
Diana thought, rather spitefully.

'In conclusion, if you want to find something to fill
your time, might I suggest that you do whatever the other
Fifth Avenue wives do - volunteer o organise charity
balls and luncheons and write letters to Town and
Country,' the businesswoman added with a sneer.
'Although I never saw why they didn't just give away the
money to charity and add on the cost of hosting the
thing. Perhaps that's because of the lack of paparazzi
involved in just writing a cheque.'


79

'Thank you for your speculations,' Diana said crisply,

'I'd rather you. kept them to yourself.'

'I dare say you would.' Kathy tapped her long nails on

the desk. 'I'd rather you didn't waste my time in the
office just because you once had my boss to dinner. Lots
of people need the job you're asking for to put bread on
their tables - and they have a passion to work. That's the
kind of people we're looking for.'

Completely discomfited, Diana sprang to her feet.
'I'll show myself out,' she said in her coldest, crispest
tone, the one she used when personal shoppers were late
for an appointment or some hapless maitre d'couldn't fit
her and Ernie in at the last minute.

'You do that,' Kathy said, ignoring her rage completely.
Diana paused at the door to her office hoping
that some snappy quip would spring to her lips; something
really cutting and harsh. But nothing suggested
itself, and the managing editor was already busy with the
papers on her desk.

Diana marched out of her office, barely able to stop
herself from slamming the door, which would have been
childish, and given the bitch more satisfaction. The only
difference between this interview and the others was that
in this one the insults had been open. In the other ones,
they had been veiled. But Diana knew when she was
being mocked.

The elevator ride down seemed eternal and depressing.
The sinking feeling in the pit ofher stomach matched the
sinking feeling in her life. Diana gazed at the well-put
together, slim, curvy figure that gazed back at her from
the shiny elevator inner doors. It was a beautiful
reflection, no two ways about it. But how long would it
stay that way? She was trembling on the threshold of
thirty; and she hadn't felt this depressed since she turned
twenty and could no longer call herself a teenager. Too
old to be a fashion assistant? But that was -. unfair.

8o


Ridiculous. Ageist. Diana wanted to hit somebody. She
felt a few tears prickling at the back of her eyes, and th, at
was unforgivable, because they would make her mascara
bleed and her foundation would go all grey.

I'm supposed to be the hottest new bride in town,
Diana thought. So why do I suddenly feel so abandoned
and useless?


By the time she got home it was 4 p.m. The sun was still
high in the sky, and yet she felt exhausted. Right now all
she wanted to do was to get into a hot bath and then go
to bed.

'Buenos dias, senora,' Consuela said, giving her a
bright, fake smile. 'Senora Felicity and Senora Natasha
call for yoq. They say to ring them. Also, Senor Cicero
waits in the guest room.'

Diana steadied herself against her dark oak balustrade,
trying to process this information. She certainly didn't
want to deal with Natty and Felicity in her present mood.

And who in the name of goodness was Senor Cicero?
'Mr Cicero?'

'Si, si. Ees friend of Senor Foxton.'

'Oh. Let me go and say hello,' Diana said faintly. She
searched her memory, trying to figure out exactly which
of Ernie's myriad business contacts this man was. And
why had he come over o the house?

She hurriedly smoothed down her skirt, and slapped on
a smile she didn't feel, and pushed open the door.

'Oh hell,' Diana said, 'it's you.'

8i


. Chapter


A month earlier, Michael walked purposefully down
Seventh Avenue and people got out of his way, as they
always did in New York. He was young, true, but he
carried himself like a much older man. Most thirty-year
olds didn't wear heavy-cut, dark suits and sober Paisley
ties. And most thirty-year-olds weren't built like a Giants
linebacker. But then again, most thirty-year-old males in
this city weren't running their own companies out of a
midtown skyscraper.

In bars, at night, Michael had sometimes been mistaken
for a stupid guy. Some men - weaker men - took
one look at the hard, thick chest, and the muscular arms
arid strong thighs, and assumed he was a jock, an idiot.
Michael didn't mind. It was human nature to be jealous.
Like a beautiful blond woman, he was thought to have
no brain. It was more enjoyable to cut down sarcastic
remarks with words than with fists, of course. Besides,
when Michael asked another guy to step outside, he
usually took one look at him and then backed down.

Since he started wearing sui-ts, he got a little more
respect. But he didn't care about the thoughts of lesser
people, he would force them to respect him. Actions
spoke louder than looks.

Green Eggs was his ticket out. As he strode along the
sidewalk, looking up at the towering buildings on either
side of him, Michael felt the headiness of it. A week ago
he was driving around trying to hawk tiny print runs of
his books to libraries. Now, suddenly, it was the big time.


8z

I could have had it before now, though, Michael
thought. If I had sold out. He congratulated himself.
What a fucking awesome buzz this was. He had held
on to his baby company, had refused to take a salary.
Now he was actually in partnership with Ernie Foxton.
Independent control and mainstream money. It was a
dream, and it was his.

The Blakely's building loomed up ahead of him.
Michael stopped dead, leaving the businesswomen in
their tight suits and the workmen clutching their Styrofoam
cups of coffee to push forward round him, waving
down the yellow cabs that crawled along the semi
gridlocked roads or diving into the.subway stations.. He
looked upwards. The tower was magnificent, covered in
opulent black polished granite. It glinted in the morning
sunlight, sparkling like marble in some Venetian palazzo.
The nam of the firm was etched on a large brass plate in
royal-blue lettering. Michael noticed that Green Eggs had
not yet been added to the list of companies housed there.
He'd have to remedy that.

The thought gave him an electrifying thrill.
Revolving doors made of solid dark glass provided an
entrance to the lobby. He could see his reflection in them.
The young man facing him was heavyset, in a smart suit,
with an intense look of concentration on his face.
Michael resisted an impulse to wink at himself. He
grinned, and pushed into the lobby. Time to get to work.


Ernie was looking out of his window as Michael Cicero
arrived, but he didn't see him walk in off the street. He
was staring out at the billboards for the movies and
DKNY jeans balancing amid the concrete forest of
midtown, but he did not see them either. Small red lights
blinked in and out of focus on his telephone bank as
Marcia dealt with them. Right now he was distracted. He
was talking to Mira Chen.


83

'You like the job then... ?' he asked nervously, fiddling
with the tie on his thousand-dollar Armani jacket. The
costly clothes never seemed to hang quite right on Ernie,
not that he gave a luck. He dressed in the most expensive
suits and shirts of the season. Top of the range, whatever
it happened to look like. Ernie thought this gave him a
sophisticated air.

'You like the job then, what?' Mira demanded, in a
low hiss.

'I mean.., you like the job then... Miss Chen,' Ernie
half whispered. He didn't dare to call her Mistress on an
open phone line, even though Mira was now his
employee. He imagined her tiny, boyish body, her long
legs tapering down to pointed, cruel stilettos. Mira was
the first time he had cheated on Diana. Ooh, she knew
how to treat a naughty boy like he deserved, Ernie
thought. He had the first stirrings of an impressive hard

on.

'It's barely adequate. I need more money and a bigger
office.'

;It's the best I can do for now ... Miss Chen,' Ernie
whimpered.

'It's not good enough. You need to be punished for
even thinking I would accept this,' Mira snapped,
hanging up on him.

Ernie gave himself a second to contemplate what
tonight's punishment might be. It was a delicious picture.

His buzzer sounded, snapping-him out of it. Ernie felt
his hard-on wither and die.

'Yeah, what is it?' he barked at Marcia.

'Excuse me, sir,' his assistant said, nervously. 'I saw
you were done with Miss Chen ... you asked me to let
you know when Michael Cicero got into the office.'

Ernie switched his focus. He felt a surge of adrenaline.
The fly had finally crawled into the web.

'Reception said he just signed in, Mr Foxton.'


84

'Excellent. I'm going to take a little orientation meeting,'
Ernie said. 'You can route my calls to Peter ,or
Janet.'

'Yes sir,' Marcia said.


Ernie rode down to Michael's floor in the regular
elevator, the peasants' elevator, as he thought of it.
Normally, he rode in the brass and velvet, air
conditioned president's car, which only he and his guests
could use. It was non-stop from the lobby to the sixteenth
floor. But Michael Cicero didn't get offices up near the
executive suites of Blakely's. He had a basic set of rooms
on the fourth floor. At this stage, there was no point in
putting any more cash into Green Eggs than they had to.

If the children's book sector wound up profitable for
Blakely's, Green Eggs would get all the cash it needed,
but by then, Michael Cicero would not be a part of it.

Ernie smiled as he thought of Jack Fineman's cleverness.
The backdoor deal with Grenouille and Bifte had
made sure that the contract was badly presented to
Cicero. There were plenty of outs for Blakely's and few
outs for Cicero. He would learn that nobody walked out
on Ernie Foxton.

Of course, Michael didn't have to learn that just yet. A
happy employee was a productive employee. Ernie
wanted to get the best .out of him, to pick his brains
before he kicked him out.

Michael Cicero was thirty and self-made and he
thought he knew everything. It would be a pleasure,
Ernie decided, to show him how wrong he was.


'So what do you think of it?' Ernie asked loudly.

He pushed through the plain wooden door without
knocking, and was pleased to see a young woman,
presumably Cicero's assistant, jump out of her skin. The
space was boringly decorated, clean and functional


85

There was nothing of the black leather and gilt-clock
elegance of the other Blakely's offices, not to mention any
trace of the opulence on Ernie's floor. Cicero had no
Eames chairs, no hand-woven Persian rugs. He had
secretary cubicles and swivel-back chairs from an 'economic'
office supply place.

But Cicero was walking around his small space as rapt
as if Ernie had assigned him a wing at Versailles.

'It's amazing.' He glanced into the corner office,
slightly larger than the two beside it, where he would sit.
'You even got us our own kitchen.' Michael laughed.
'Susan is thrilled she won't have to go on a bagel run
twice a day any more.'

'And you've hired your new people?' Ernie asked. He
really didn't care what Susan thought. She was" pretty
enough, but girls like her were two a nickel in New York.
He didn't promote women up from assistant positions
and he didn't want to luck her, so she didn't feature on
his radar.

'Yeah. I spoke to Felix last week. Everybody will be
coning in today, making changes to the run we have
ready to go. Of course, they will have to get used to all
this.' He waved a brawny arm around his offices, and
Ernie realised the bitching about luxury wasn't going to
come. To Michael Cicero, this was luxury.

'You have to bring your illustrators up to meet Janet
and me.' Ernie smiled warmly at the younger man. His
lawyers had told him he had to -make sure of each piece
of talent, individually, to really luck Michael over. Last
thing he wanted was Cicero walking out before he had
got hold of his talent. 'We take pride in really getting to
know a team we work with.'

'I'll do that.' Michael repressed his distaste. He hated
corporate therapy-speak that called workplaces 'teams'
and 'families' and then didn't hesitate to fire a guy who
was underperforming. Plus, the limey was thin and had


86

manicured hands and what looked like a fake tan. He
was a million miles away from Michael's idea of a g,uy.
But he was the one coming up with the money. So far,
there had been no memos, no corporate interference. Just
production dollars, meetings with finance guys and lots
of cheques.

Michael reminded himself it was no more cheap paper
and flimsy covers. No more riding around Brooklyn and
the Long Island Expressway with a van full of products.
For that, he could deal with Ernie and his corporate
babble.

Ernie stuck out a bony hand, and Michael shook it,
careful not to crush it in his.

'Great to have you on board,' Ernie said. 'We love
nurturing talent. We think you're really going to create a
very special endeavour here.'

What the hell does that mean? Michael thought, but he
just smiled. 'Thanks. The guys will be arriving shortly.
I'll send them upstairs when they get here.'

'Good. Remember, you're part of the Blakely's family
now,' Ernie told him. Then he flashed an insincere smile
at Susan Katz and was gone.

Susan closed the door behind Ernie and looked at her handsome boss. He was leaning over the windowsill
outside his office, surveying the street. Nobody was here;
the creative gang didn't show up to work until ten
o'clock at the earliest. She indulged in a brief, glorious
fantasy that Michael would turn around to her, thrust up
her neat little burgundy skirt, grab her thighs around the
cream-coloured lace hold-up stockings she was wearing
today, and throw her over her cubicle desk and just luck
her brains out.

'So what do we do now?' Susan ventured.

Michael turned around and handed her a neat sheet of
folded paper from his jacket pocket. 'This is the call sheet
for today. I made it up last night.'


87

'Yes, Mr Cicero,' Susan said, sighing.

Of course. Work. She was insane to think here could
be anything else in Michael's life.


Michael Cicero could never clearly recall his first few
weeks in business. It merged into one long, confused,
exhilarating, exhausting blur. While Seth and his other
illustrators worked with Blakely's production team, he
was hiring salesmen, visiting booksellers and making
presentations. At night he was wiped out, but still didn't
want to leave. Susan Katz, reluctantly, would leave the
office, in a breath of perfume, wishing him goodnight
with her pencil-lined mouth, tossing her gleaming hair
back across her shoulders, and Michael, oblivious, would
head out to a bar when he could no longer squeeze in
even one more call.

The line was coming together. The response was
superb. He felt he was living on a cloud of adrenaline and
energy. He snatched a sandwich or burger when he
could, and fit in his workouts by rising an hour earlier.

Every night, Michael wanted to celebrate.

What he really wanted was a woman.

There was no shortage of girls, of course. There never
had been. Poor Susan, if Michael had met her in a bar he
would have jumped her bones without thinking twice.
But the office was sacred to him. Three times a week, on
average, he picked up a girl, usually one he had banged
before; girls he knew, clean, .dumb, gorgeous girls,
women he could take in small doses. They had big
breasts, small waists and round, firm butts. Unfortunately,
most girls were stupid and Michael couldn't take
stupid. He was polite and kind and didn't lie to anybody.
Nine times out of ten, they wanted a return encounter.
He liked Janet, who wore a bra two sizes too small, so
creamy, jiggling flesh poured out over the top of the black
lace, and Elsa, the fitness instructor, who had that

delectable ass, curvy, jutting and muscular. He laughed at
her when she complained about it. When would girls
learn that most guys didn't want a tomboy? Every tire
Elsa leant over to pick up something from the floor, he
got a twitch in his groin.

But all the girls who banged Michael so eagerly, all the
condom packets he went through, didn't satisfy him. He
wanted a girl he could talk to when she was done giving
him head, preferably expertly. And if her technique
wasn't perfect, he'd be happy to give her practical
lessons.

He thought he'd found her when he met Iris. She was
in a bar on Twenty-fourth and Eighth, but then again, so
was he. She was a paralegal, with hopes of becoming a
lawyer some day. She had an excellent body, a curvy ass,
good tits, and she knew several words of more than one
syllable. -Michael asked her out and, to his surprise,
found she wouldn't give it up on the first date. Nor the
second. She made it to three before sharing his bed, and
when she did so, he found she could suck him well. Better
than well. She wasn't the classiest girl, but he figured you
had to make allowances. And he was full of adrenaline,
and she was there.

One evening, three weeks into their relationship, after
a more expensive dinner than he could really afford,
Michael had taken her home, banged her, and was now
wondering how long he had to wait before he could ask
her to leave, without being rude. A girlfriend was great,
but he had to get up in the morning.

Iris lay sprawled across his bed, reading his tabloids:
the News and Post which Michael only bought for the
sports sections. Iris liked to ring all the jewellery shops
advertising discount diamonds she couldn't afford, and
then move on to the gossip pages. She propped herself up
on her slim elbows, which let her breasts sway nicely, her
nipples still hardened from his tongue on them earlier.


89

'Anything interesting?' Cicero asked. Play nice, he
thought with an inward sigh.

'Yeah. Something about your boss.'

'Where? Let me see.'

'Oh, so now you're interested,' Iris teased, but she
handed over the inky sheet. 'It's a bit about the wife,
actually.'

'Diana? She's a snotty little bitch,' Michael said,
unthinkingly, and then cursed himself. He shouldn't say
things like that. Not even to Iris. Discretion was important
in a business like his.

'You met her?' Iris demanded. She sat up with a sigh,
butt-naked, and he admired the firm lines of her stomach.
She sighed, wistfully. 'They're always taking her photo.
She looks so great. She throws, like, the hippest-parties,
and everybody goes.'

'Do they now,' Michael said, absently. He scanned the
article to see if it said anything about Ernie. It didn't; he
was about to throw it out.

'Sure. All the celebrities, the politicians, basketball
players, everyone ... and her clothes, such incredible
clothes!'

Iris babbled on, but Cicero paid her no attention. He
was looking at the shot of Diana, in a soft cashmere sky
blue sweater worn over a silk taffeta skirt, emerging from
a dinner at City Hall. She looked ... out of his league.
Classy, like a princess or something. The thought of Ernie
Foxton banging that was literally incredible. He tried to
picture it: he failed.

Diana Foxton. There was something about her he
should remember, wasn't there? Something he had meant
to do that had slipped by him?

Oh, shit, Michael thought. Of course. They had fought - stuck-up madam that she was. Class, sure, but didn't
she know it - and he had signed his deal before she could
go running to Ernie and blow it for him.


90

But in fact, she hadn't said a thing. Ernie had never mentioned it. Nobody had said boo to him. Mrs Foxton
had actually kept that plump, sexy little mouth shut.'

He should thank her. He had meant to go and thank
her. She could have made things hard for him, and she
had chosen not to.

Credit where it's due, Michael thought. He resolved he
would see her tomorrow.

He looked across at Iris, her legs up in the air, lying on
her stomach now. Her ass stuck straight up in the air. He
was sure she lay around naked deliberately. Whatever,
she was a great piece of ass.

'Get over here,' he said.

91


hapter I


Michael Cicero looked at Diana.

He was lounging on Ernie's antique Chesterfield sofa

which she had found at huge cost with the help of two
decorators. Diana couldn't accuse him of being rude, at
least not directly. His feet weren't propped up on her
Indian ottoman, he wasn't smoking and dropping ash
on to the Persian carpet.

But something about his manner set her on edge.
Diana's skin prickled when she noticed his body, lean
and hugely muscled, looking even bigger in that new suit
he was wearing, arranging itself comfortably on the
leather, relaxed, confident. Cicero didn't seem in the
slightest bit put off by the fact that he was lolling on a
fifteen-thousand-dollar piece of furniture; nor nervous
that he might knock over one of the eighteenth-century
vases. He wasn't even staring reverentially at the pictures
and mentally calculating how much they cost. He didn't
seem, Diana realised with another shock of annoyance,
to care.

His suit was charcoal, hand tailored. It was no
designer she could pick out. The shoes -John Lobb,
maybe? Diana was hazy on men's fashions, but she knew
instantly that Michael Cicero had come into money and
that he had aggravatingly good taste.

'That's not the most pleasant way to greet a guest,
ma'am,' Michael said with a lazy smile. His eyes flickered
over her, and for the first time, Diana noticed it. She
blushed slightly and drew herself up, angry at having

Cbeen caught in blatant rudeness. You couldn't allow
yourself to slip like that. This arrogant man was some
kind of business acquaintance of Ernie's.

I won't endear myself to Ernie by putting off his
colleagues, Diana thought.

She glided into the drawing room and offered him the
warmest smile she could muster.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it how it sounded.'

'Oh hell, it's you?' Michael quoted, with a broad grin.
Diana was slightly flustered. 'Well, I - I guess - it came

Out--'

Cicero held up one hand. 'Hey, that's fine. I understand.
Don't worry about it.'

Diana bit down on her lip. 'You were waiting to see
Ernie here?,I'm afraid he'll be at the office for quite some
time.'

'No. I "came to see you.'

She paused, not quite sure she'd heard him properly.
'You came to see me?"

'You're going to ask to what do you owe the pleasure,
aren't you?'

'Something like that.'

'Please, have a seat.' It was amazing, the way he could
so generously invite her to sit down in her own
apartment. He did it with such force of will that Diana
found herself settling on the armchair opposite him.

Michael watched the way she tucked her slender legs in
behind her automatically as she sat down. Her back was
rigid, her bearing ladylike. She was one class act, he
thought, and judging from the way she was dressed, she
cost exactly what you always imagined these dames
fetched. He thought about Ernie Foxton. Maybe she liked
Ernie's take-no-prisoners business style, who knew? The
guy had nothing else to recommend him. Prancing
around in his flashy clothes, with his designer offices, and
weak limbs - probably never seen a set of weights in his


93

life. He hadn't had the right body language with his girl
either, when they were at lunch. Hadn't even held her
hand. Hell, if she were my woman, Michael told himself,
I'd be all over her.

He decided that the unyielding rigidity of her back was
due to the fact that she never came. A little mouse of a
man like Ernie couldn't melt the ice over that exterior.
No way.

He pulled himself sharply back from his reverie. She
was a spoiled little minx, and she looked exhausted from
her long day of shopping, probably. Best that he
said his piece and got out.

'Well, actually, I figured I should come around and
thank you,' Michael said.

'Thank me for what? I'm sure you don't owe me
anything.' Diana pressed a little button on the table, and
Consuela glided into view. 'Could you fetch us a pot of
coffee and some cookies, please, Consuela?'

'It's not necessary. I won't be staying. My company,
Green Eggs, signed a deal with Ernie's company last month.'

'Really? I don't pay much attention to his work,' Diana
said vaguely.

Then it's not his business nous, Michael thought, just
good old-fashioned gold-digging. He refused to believe
that the gorgeous creature in front of him could love
anybody at all apart from herself, and certainly not Ernie
Foxton.

'Well, yeah, we did. It meant I got new offices, some
cash to play around with, great distribution, more staff, a
printing facility ...'

'Congratulations,' Diana said, slightly coolly. Why on
earth washe telling her all this? It pained her to see this this
thug from the wrong side of the tracks sitting in front
of her and congratulating himself on his shiny new offices


94

and fleets of staff, or whatever it was, when she herself

could not even get a lousy editorial assistant's job.
'And in a way I have you to thank for it.'
'I don't see how.'

Michael swallowed. This was the bit he hadn't been
looking forward to. 'When we had lunch that time, I
guess I let rip some. And since you were Ernie's wife, I
expected you to go running home to him and tell him. It
could have blown the deal. Not the main deal, because I
signed real fast, but some bonuses and stuff.'

'If you're coming here to apologise for what you said
that day at lunch, I forgive you.'

'Not at all. I'm not apologising,'.Michael said quickly,
struggling not to snap when he was supposed th be
thanking her. 'I just want to thank you for having kept it
to yourself.'

Diana-bristled. She'd wanted him to eat humble pie,
and apparently that was not on today's menu. But what
could she do when he was here thanking her?

Her blue eyes settled on his face. It was handsome and
square jawed. She had visions of him with maybe dozens
of women. That was usually what made men so cocky.
This one had been the same way even when he'd showed
up to lunch in that cheap suit and bad shoes.

'That's no problem at all.' I'm going to be gracious if it
kills me, Diana thought. 'I don't go telling tales on
people. Whomever Ernie wants to deal with, that's his

business. I hope the takeover works out well for you.'
'It's not a takeover, it's a partnership.'
'Whatever. I hope it makes you very rich.'

'I certainly hope it's good for the company,' Michael
said neutrally. 'For both companies.'

Diana felt a great wash of exhaustion rock her. She
didn't feel up to an in-depth discussion of this guy's
successes right now. She pressed one slender hand to her
forehead. 'Look, Mr Cicero - I wonder if you would be


95

kind enough to excuse me. I've had a really bad day, and
I was looking forward to a bath and bed.'

'Of course.' He stood up, and she couldn't help but
notice he was short, and very stocky. He was about five
ten, and his lack of height just made his body look bigger.
'I'm sorry to hear that. Why was your day so bad?'

'I couldn't get a job.' Diana half clapped her hand over

her mouth. Had she just said that? She must be tired.
'You were trying to get a job?'

'Do you all have to look so surprised? Yes, I worked
before my marriage. I was a fashion assistant at Vogue in
England. Ernie's an American citizen, so as his wife I
have a right to look for work.'

'Hey, hey, slow down.' He sat down again. 'I'm sure
you do. Now, who's "you all"? How many interviews
did you go on?'

Diana wondered how she had gotten into this, but
there was no point in lying now. 'Seven. And the last
woman was just rude to me.'

'I'm sorry.' Michael tried, and failed, to imagine the
woman in front of him going to seven job interviews.
Seven in one day would mean that she was almost serious
about getting a job. 'She was rude, huh? What did she
say?'

'She said I should sit at home and throw charity balls
for the paparazzi.'

Michael burst out laughing, and Diana couldn't take it
any more. She stamped her foot..

'You're worse than she was! How dare you laugh at
me! You're in my home!'

'Look.' Michael smothered his laugh and walked closer
to her, putting his hands on her arms. His touch was very
strong, but subtle. 'I'm truly sorry I laughed just now. It
was just such a rude thing of her to have said.'

That was a lie, but a little white lie couldn't hurt. It
wouldn't comfort her to know that he'd laughed because


96

that was exactly what he'd thought Diana should do
himself. Cicero felt an unexpected small pang of guilt.
The girl was trying, right? He had to give her credit or
that.

'It was, wasn't it?'

'Very. Look, if you're serious about working, you
could maybe come and do something in my office.'

'Like decorating it?' Diana brightened. 'I'd be excellent
at that and very reasonable.'

That would be a coup. She'd love to tell her friends
that she had her first decorating commission. That might
actually be fun.

Michael Cicero was giving her a surprised look with
his dark eyes. 'No. I have the wall colour I want and a
print and ome furniture.'

'I think I could manage something rather more exciting
than that. I could start with some Eames chairs, and
'My
budget for decorating isn't really large, he said,
dryly. She was a fox, no doubt about that, but she was
definitely starting to irritate him again. 'I mean, say,
being my assistant, helping to file, and make phone
calls--'

'Fetch tea and coffee?' Diana asked sarcastically.
The sarcasm washed off him like water off a duck's
back. 'Exactly. Tea, coffee, frank the mail, whatever
needs doing. It's like a Girl Friday job. It would be hard

work and it wouldn't pay much.'

'Sounds great.'

'Look, if you don't want it, I-understand. You're a rich
lady. Thanks for taking the time to see me,' Michael said,
courteously, offering her a stiff little bow.

'No - wait, please.' Diana ran and caught at the elbow
of his jacket. Her pride was stung. He agreed with the
nasty hag from City Woman, he thought she should stay
at home and run charity balls. I'm more than that, she
thought fiercely. I can handle a job! Why does everybody

except Milla assume I would fail? The thought of Mira
Chen, in the office, the little businesswoman, probably
right now taking a 'meeting' with her husband, made her
furious. 'I'd love the job. It doesn't matter about the pay.

Just as long as I can start as soon as possible.'
'Pay would be fifteen thousand a year.'
'Sounds good to me,' Diana said, insistently.
Michael could have kicked himself. Who on earth
would have thought that the woman would actually say
yes? But that was fine. She'd quit in a week. A chick like
that - society lady with the body of a forties sweetheart had
probably never worked an honest day in her life.

'We have new offices in the Blakely's building. Fourth

floor. You won't be too near Ernie, I'm afraid.'

'That's fine,' Diana assured him. 'What time do you

open the office? Publishing normally starts around ten,
correct ?'

'Correct. It normally does. But Green Eggs is a bit

more ambitious than most. I like to be in the office at
eight thirty. I'll see you there at that time tomorrow. If
I'm'a little late, the security guard will let you in.'

He chuckled inwardly, watching her pale. Any second

now she'd fling the job back in his face.

'Oh, and by the way.' He thought he'd spice up the

mix for her. 'I take my coffee black, and I like it fresh
brewed twice a day.'

Diana swallowed hard. Insufferable man. He was
playing with her. He wanted her. to quit.

'See you tomorrow at eight thirty,' she snapped. 'Let

me show you out.'

'You do that.' Cicero was strolling out to the door.

That arrogant walk he had, it was like he owned the

place. 'I'll look forward to working with you.'


Diana went upstairs and ran herself a hot tub, shaking

Floris Lily of the Valley liberally into it, and revelling in


98

the cloud of flagrant steam as she sank her long limbs
into the water. Her feet had a very unaccustomed ache
from tramping round the streets of New York all day
long - it was amazing how hard it was to get cabs in
midtown at lunchtime- and she wasn't used to the
humiliations she'd been asked to suffer. Well, Elle and Marie Claire would regret bitterly that they hadn't
snapped up the new Diana, the new businesswoman
Diana, once she'd made her mark in publishing. She was
determined to be upbeat about her new job. Fifteen
thousand didn't sound very much, and, of course, it was
dollars, not even pounds. But it was a start. It could be
her handbag money, or maybe she'd put it in the stock
market, and wind up really rich like the Rockefeliers.
There were. consolations. Diana considered the delicious
necessity of buying a completely new wardrobe full of
business suits, maybe even kitsch pinstripes, who knew?
There were endless possibilities, and then of course one
needed work shoes and handbags to go with them. She
could almost forgive Michael Cicero his coffee remark.
Did he really expect her to fetch his drinks? Of course
not. That had to have been a joke. At any rate, she would
show him that she could not be bossed around the way
he seemed to be planning.

She started daydreaming about life as a working
woman. Ernie would be entranced and surprised, and
he'd just have to work harder at catching her in. Then
there would be so much less time for extracurricular
activities. Yes, Diana thought,-she had made it far too
easy for him to enjoy the pleasure of her company. But all
that would change.

Fuelled by enjoyable thoughts of revenge, Diana
climbed out of her bath and swathed herself in her rich,
navy Ralph Lauren gown. She lazily reached for her
Crme de la Mer and slathered it all over her hands and
body, rubbing it into her knees, her aching shins and feet.

99


Then she sauntered into her walk-in closet and stood in
an agony of indecision for several minutes before plumping
for her pink silk Richard Tyler number. She just managed to finish spritzing her perfume before she heard
the front door open.

Ernie was home.

IO0


Chapter


Five miles away, in SoHo, Felicity Metson was considering
her options.

Diana Fo�ton was such a little fool. Nobody liked her - who could like that combination of perfect dressing and
inane naivety? It was too unfair t.o watch her swan into
town with no reputation, nothing, only a rich husband in
a city full, of rich husbands and that blasted accent, and
just take over the social scene. Her body didn't fit in - a
good ten pounds she had on most of the girls - and her
dressing didn't fit in - such perfectly tailored, wonderfully
subtle clothes; even if she was wearing Prada and
Gucci she managed to make them look English. You
glanced at Diana and you got an instant sense of Merry
Olde Englande, with - well - castles and Labrador
puppies and oh, what was that game they had that was
even more boring than baseball? Oh, cricket; yes, that
was it. Of course, Ernie was just another rich flyboy
made good, but that wasn't the point. A rich husband
was pretty much wallpaper.

Felicity moved around her pale-cream apartment, idly
dusting the Moda Italia furniture that was so stylish and
uncomfortable, and the stacks of How to Get a Man
books she kept like bibles at the side of her bed. Because,
after all, even though a husband did nothing more than
provide the requisite background for a wife to shine
against, he was a necessity. How could you throw
wonderful, aggravatingly perfect dinners like Diana
Foxton without the moolah necessary to hire just the


IOI

right chef, get the perfect table bouquets of twigs and
wild berries, and buy the French crystal that everyone
drank out of and the Royal Doulton everybody ate off?

It was too bad, Felicity thought, pouting, that Hector,
her own husband - landed after a campaign planned with
military precision - had decided" that, after all, he
preferred the company of slender, sexy young men. It was
simply embarrassing to be this young and divorced. She
glanced down at her man manuals - The Rules, Getting
To I Do, The Art of War for Lovers - and thought about
Ernie Foxton. What on earth had Diana got to complain
about? Ernie was a good worker and seemed to give her
carte blanche when it came to running her home and her
life. Felicity went to her wonderful x97os bar and mixed
herself a vodka Martini, even putting in a jumbo olive,
because style was all about the details. Diana was mad,
the silly little chit, running around town telling all and
sundry. And the faces of Jodie and Natasha saying their
husbands didn't cheat! The whole world knew that
Zuckerman liked to pork the nanny whenever possible,
and Natasha went along with it because if it was kept in
the house it was under her control. All she did was
change the model regularly, as if there were any danger
her hubby would divorce her - far too much money
down the drain for that. Felicity lifted her glass to
Natasha, who was a wife who knew how to play the
game. It suited her to be married and it suited her
husband to be married. With this. open admission, this
senseless bleating, Diana was laying Ernie and herself
open to ridicule.

In Felicity's experience, if there was one thing men
couldn't stand, it was ridicule.

The Zuckermans and the Goodfriends would have
blabbed it all over town by now. Felicity had kept quiet
and congratulated herself on her subtlety. When Ernie
first started hearing the rumours, he would investigate

the source and find .out that she, Felicity, had been the
only discreet person in the whole silly business. Wha, t a
fool Diana was to worry about the little oriental tart
Ernie had brought into the office! That was not the type
of woman an obvious social climber like Ernie would
ever marry. She would never be able to mingle properly
at the Met, the way the classiest Chinese and Japanese
ladies did with such effortless ease. She was a cheap little
slut who had no social graces, and besides which, she
thought small. She was, Felicity decided, most likely just
sticking Ernie up for the odd platinum watch and
diamond bracelet, instead of the small gold ring which
really counted. Ernie was no fool. He wouldn't svap a
Diana for a Mira. But if Diana wasn't careful, she would
most likel8 find herself swapped for someone else.

The phone at her bedside buzzed. It was Tom. She let
the machine pick up.

'Hey babe, it's me. Got a forty-eight-hour pass at the
last minute. Wondered if you wanted to do dinner or
something. I'll try you later.'

Dinner or something? Well, that was very romantic,
Felicity thought disdainfully, wiping his message with
one flick of her Chanel Rouge Argent sparkling fingernail.
Tom just didn't get it, did he? He looked good in
dress whites, and he was a novelty in her circle, certainly
better than nothing. A recently divorced girl could not
afford to be seen anywhere unaccompanied. But the
salary of a Marine major was never going to keep her in
the style to which she'd become so very accustomed.
Why, if she married Tom she'd be the richer partner and
need a pre-nup. And besides, who could see her, Felicity
Metson, dragging herself from base to base and deferring
to the wife of a lieutnantocolonel?

She squirmed with shame on the sofa as she thought of
her divorce. God, what a stigma! A girl her age actually
cast aside! It was no comfort to think that Hector had

been a faggot. If she had somehow been smarter and let
him know, subtly, that both her eyes were blind, he could
have had the gardener, the pool-man and the chef and she
would never have batted an eyelid. It wasn't so different
to what Natasha was doing. Felicity swung her skinny
legs and mentally chastised herself. What a rookie .error,
to try to persuade Hector that his position demanded he
be straight, that he could shut his eyes and just do her
instead. She'd made him uncomfortable. As Diana was
most likely making Ernie uncomfortable right now.

Of course, I was married for a good five years. And
silly little Miss Perfect has only been wed six months,
Felicity triumphed, taking a spiteful sip of her Martini.
What a terribly amusing thing it was to see the beautifully
put together Miss Limey with that aggravaingly
classy accent take such a swift tumble from grace, and
then be stupid enough to broadcast it to the two biggest
gossips in town! They would be repeating this story at
Bliss facial spa and Oribe's salon on Fifth and, in fact, all
over. New York. She made a mental bet with herself on
how long it would take to get back to Ernie that his wife
had been blabbing? Not long, not long at all. And then,
how he would prize discretion, and want to silence the
gossips.

Felicity made a mental note to find out all she could
about Ernie Foxton. Judging from his apartment, he was
doing wonderfully well. And if she .played her cards right,
he could soon be back on the market. Just as she was
herself.


Diana settled into the high-backed, carved oak chair
opposite Ernie's. She'd had a little love table installed at
one end of the bedroom for their most intimate dinners.
His favourite food, champagne, flowers, candles. It
would be special for a lot of men, but she did this for


Io4

Ernie on a regular basis. A pleasant home was her end of

the bargain. Why couldn't he keep his?

'How was your day today, darling?'

Now that the moment was here, she was nervous. She
had no idea how to handle it.

'Not too bad. Lots of meetings. Always the same.'
Ernie's accent was starting to grate on her. 'Nothing
you'd be interested in. Have a good time here?'

'I might be interested in your work if you'd tell me
about it,' Diana said sweetly.

He looked surprised. 'I doubt it. You've never shown
any interest in anything without a label on the back, have
you?'

'I could be. I spent some time at Vogue before We got
married.'.

Ernie speared his lamb and shook the piece at her,
smirking. 'Yeah, but that was hardly a real job. You were
just mucking about waiting for me to pop the question.
And I didn't mind. What were you going to say, that we

now had two million and twelve thousand a year?'
He giggled in his high-pitched way.

'It's true; I have been a bit of a butterfly,' Diana
admitted, stifling her annoyance. She tossed back her
silky hair to show it off to its bestadvantage in the
candlelight, but Ernie only seemed interested in the
cranberry relish. 'But I think the working life has a lot to
offer a woman.'

'Like a salary. Lucky for you, you don't need one.'
'I think it's important to be independent,' Diana said
firmly. 'I've actually gone out looking for a job. And I've
found one. In publishing.'

That got him. Ernie lowered his knife and fork
theatrically and stared at her. 'In publishing? But you've
got no experience. What are you doing? Who for?'

'I'm going to be assisting one of your colleagues.
Michael Cicero at Green Eggs.'

Ernie half choked. 'You what?'

'I'm going to be working for Mr Cicero,' Diana said,
sliding one long, curvy leg over the other and shaking her
shoulders slightly so that her dress moved around the full
ripeness of her breasts.

Ernie looked at the sensual movement of his wife, but
she did nothing for him. If Diana could get a little kinky,
get a riding crop and paddle his buttocks mercilessly the
way Mira had done this morning, maybe he'd have some
desire for her again. But Mira had squeezed out the last
drop of juice from him, and he didn't think he could get it
up for Diana with a crane. Now she wanted to work for
that little asshole Cicero, huh? Well, he, Ernie, wanted a
spy in that office. Besides, it would mean she had less
time to wonder where he was at night.

'If you want to, babe, I think that'd be a great idea.'

Diana preened. 'I'm sure I'd be able to understand your
business more once I get the hang of it.'

'Get the hang of it? You'll quit in a week.'

'Why would you say that? Of course I won't quit. I'll
be gbod at it. I'm sure I'll be indispensable.'

'Rumour has it Mike Cicero's a slave driver.'

Don't talk to me about rumours, Diana thought. She
lifted her glass. 'I can handle it. Let's have a toast. To
business.'

'To business,' Ernie repeated dutifully, wondering
what had got into his meek little wife.


He took some paperwork into his den as soon as
Consuela started to clear away the dishes. If he could stay
up late enough Diana would fall asleep and he wouldn't
be expected to perform like a trained monkey. I'm stressed, Ernie whined to himself. He shut the heavy oak
door behind him and gleefully booted up his computer so
he could log on to the Internet. He loved the Net, it was
an isolating little cyber-world that kept him well away

from his flesh and blood woman. So far Diana had never
disturbed him in here. Ernie told himself smugly that ,she
knew better.

He had just clicked his mouse on to his favourite online
trading site when there was the unmistakable squeak of
the door. Without glancing round, Ernie told Consuela
he wouldn't be needing anything else and she could
retire.

'It's not Consuela. It's me.'

Ernie twisted around in his revolving chair. Diana
stood in the doorway, the light from their soft sconces
filtering through her dress, outlining the silhouette of her.
She was built a lot like that film star, Catherine Zeta
Jones. He so much preferred Mira's hard, tarty, boyish
little body,

'I got some work to do, OK, babes?'

'Not rally.' Diana took a deep breath and glanced out
of their huge, six-foot windows looking downtown
through the canyons of glass and concrete. Manhattan
was Ernie's gift to her, and it was glittering in the night
like a web of jewels. 'I think we need to talk, darling.'

'We just did talk,' Ernie said, a nasty squirming feeling
in the pit of his stomach. Fuck. Was she on to him? It felt
just like when his Ma used to scold him, back at school,
in front of the other kids. He began to feel the first
stirrings of resentment..

'Who were you talking to so early the other morning? I
heard you on the phone. You told the girl on the other
end not to speak so loudly in ease you woke your wife.'

'How do you know it was a girl? R wasn't a girl. It was
Peter Davits, he's my head of business affairs. He needed
an early morning meeting and I wanted to make sure I
didn't disturb you.'

Diana relaxed and Ernie breathed out. Well. It was
easier than he'd expected to wriggle out. 'Look at you,
you're all jealous. Don't you know I got the best wife in


Io7

New York? You know I need to work all the hours God
sends, sweetheart. To get nice things for you. Same as it
always was. All right?'

'All right,' Diana said, smiling at him uncertainly.

'I really need to finish up in here. Why don't you go get
some rest and I'll be in as soon as I can. You've got a big
day tomorrow. New job.' Ernie tried to finish that last
sentence with a straight face.

'You're right.' Diana padded across the study in her
delicate Moroccan slippers, embroidered in golden
thread, that sparkled as she moved. She kissed him, and
there was the scent of baby powder on her skin. Very
clean, very wholesome, very spoiled. Ernie decided he'd
have to find some way of letting her know what the score
was. He hardly asked much of her. Looking the" other
way, it was as old as time, wasn't it? What wife could do
less?

Ernie clasped her to him and dramatically breathed in,
sniffing the air. 'Wow, you smell great, honey. Why don't
you go to Tiffany's tomorrow and get yourself a little
sonlething to celebrate your new job?'

'Thanks. I will. Don't be too long,' Diana said,
pressing his shoulders and gliding off.

Ernie waited until he heard the bedroom door shut,
then picked up his cell phone and dialled Mira's number
from memory. If he was lucky, his Mistress would be
home, and maybe order him to another early morning
rendezvous tomorrow.

I08


Chapter 13


The alarm buzzed in the darkness, and for a few seconds
Diana didn't recognise the sound. She lay sprawled in her
silk sheets, trying to work out, half conscious, why that
horrible noise wouldn't stop.

Ernie's bare foot pushed at her, and with a start, Diana
sat up. Groggily she hit the button to turn the wretched
thing off. I/a the darkness of early morning, the luminous
dials on the clock silently told her it was 5.5o a.m.
The bedroom was chilly, and laer sheets and pillows
seemed blissfully, temptingly soft and warm. For a
second she hesitated, but only for a second. Diana
.glanced back at her husband, snoring in the sheets, and
thought of Mira Chen's nasty little smile. She, Diana
Foxton, was not the type to give up so easily. She jumped
out of bed and staggered into the shower.

They had separate bathrooms, because Diana couldn't
stand to have Enie watching her toilette. A woman must
cultivate an air of mystery. When she needed to floss, or
pluck her eyebrows, he didn't need to watch, did he? She
loved to appear perfectly groomed and pulled-together at
all times. She turned the heavy brass shower knobs to her
pre-programmed temperature setting and clicked the
water pressure to power. Time to wake up. The jets,
steaming and brutal, hissed into action, and Diana slid
aside the frosted glass doors and stepped in.

Ah! Normally she adored her black marble, roomy
shower, with its inlaid gold and silver stars that made
you feel as though you were washing yourself in the night


to9

sky, but today the water was invigorating and harsh. Her
shoulders and back were pummelled into wakefulness,
and little rivulets gushed down over her forehead and
across her nose and mouth. Her sleepiness evaporated,
and Diana congratulated herself on her willpower as she
reached for the shampoo. True, they were really not far
from the office here, and she had a chauffeur on twenty
four-hour call, so she wouldn't have to wait for a taxi.
But I left enough time to dress and make up, Diana
thought. Pleasant visions of herself gliding beautifully
into Michael Cicero's office, immaculately presented,
drove her on. That bastard had more or less offered her the job as a joke. He didn't expect to see her on time, let
alone put together. But I'll show him, Diana thought,
excitedly.

She took her time in her gilt and marble sanctuary.
Hair was easy - she always went for a glossy, well
conditioned, natural look. Make-up was somewhat more
difficult. At Vogue, of course, there was the option to be
fashionable. In a regular office, it probably wouldn't do
to Ie daring. Languidly, Diana settled on a pretty, neutral
look, a sheer mousse foundation, soft berry lips, nothing
but mascara on the eyes with a touch of concealer to
mask the terrible sleep deprivation. The bathroom winm
dow looked out past her terrace to Central Park, and as
dawn hit the New York skyline, revealing a few ant-like
figures making their morning circular rounds past the
lake, Diana rubbed La Prairie moisturiser into her
shapely calves and told herself being a working woman
wasn't at all bad.

She buzzed the kitchen and told Paula, the cook, to
have some vanilla coffee perking and warm her up a
croissant. All this fashion was giving her an appetite. She
finished blow-drying her hair, smoothed it with a touch
of shiner, and selected the belted navy shirtdress that was
the most appropriate thing for work that she had in her

No

wardrobe. Clothes shopping would need to be after hours
or at the weekend. Maybe she'd pick up a nice burgu,ndy
leather briefcase from Coach while she was at it.

Finally, she was ready. She spritzed herself with
Clinique's Aromatics Elixir, clip-clipped as quietly as she
could on her high blue strappy Manolos out of the
bedroom, and went downstairs to bid Paula good
morning and pick at her breakfast. Freshly squeezed
juice, fragrant coffee and a small croissant, just to settle
her stomach. After Paula had left the room, Diana,
delicately sipping from her cup, regarded her reflection
with the utmost approval. Everything worked magnificently
together. In fact, she looked, very like Grace Kelly.

Yes, Diana told herself. Being a working woman
would be fun, fun, fun!


Michael'awoke at quarter past seven in the way he liked
best, which was to say Iris's lips were wrapped around
his cock, and her tongue was flickering over the head of
it. To be honest it was a little late for him to be awake; a
hangover from busting this chick up for hours the night
before, he guessed. But Iris's tongue was flickering over
his penis in that soft, feather-light, sexy way she had,
darting over the tiny ridge of skin that he loved a girl's
lips on so much, then sliding her mouth down the whole
length of him. Yeah, now he was awake. His fingers
tightened in her hair. Oh, man, was she ever good at this.
A faint question as to how exactly she had gotten so good
at it danced in the back of-his mind, but it was a
distracting thought, and he tried to'squash it. She was a
smartly dressed, clever enough chick, with a pretty face
and a body he'd have liked to add twenty pounds to, but
it wasn't all that bad. She was a bit earnest, but she was a
nice girl. He thought so. Well, sure, she qualified. Very
few girls resisted Michael's full court press for any length
of time; normally he measured it in hours, not dates. So

Michael felt hopeful about this one. Though he never
articulated the thought to himself, he respected the
situation of the family, and one day, maybe, just maybe,
he'd like to be married. There were a hundred girls
around in New York he could fuck - married girls,
engaged girls, girls who propositioned you right to your
face - a huge turn-off- girls dating other guys, and just
the common or garden variety of girl who would agree to
every nasty little thing you suggested right away, before
she even knew your surname. He'd fucked some of these
girls. It used to be all of these girls. When he was a bit
younger, Michael had carried a full condom pack in his
hip pocket at all times. But now, the girls just looked
more tired, less appealing. When he woke up with one, it
felt cheap, maybe a little dirty. Like when you ate'a full
box of Crackerjack out at a ball game and then felt sick
later. Plus, there was the ever more annoying problem of
how to get them out of the bed, the apartment, and his
life. He'd even stopped giving out his number, so he
didn't have to deal with the pleading, whimpering phone
callk. Iris had put a stop to all that. She qualified as a nice
girl so he didn't like to speculate how she'd become as
good as she was at what she was doing right now.

Iris smirked and angled her head backwards and took
him deeper into her throat, and Michael groaned.
Somehow it was no longer quite so important to keep one
eye on the clock. Damn. Feel that sucking. His cock was
always more awake than he was in the mornings anyway.
'I gotta go,' he breathed.

'Not right yet, baby.' She broke off and lifted those
puppy-dog eyes to his.

'Stop talking,' Michael growled. He pulled her lips
back on to him and spread his thick, hard thighs on the
bed. Her bleached-blond hair was bobbing up and down
in an amazingly distracting way.

Wasn't he doing something new at work this mor.ning?

He didn't remember. He didn't remember anything. He
didn't even know where he was. There was nothing, on
his mind but his hard thickness, and Iris's clever, eager
mouth surrounding and sucking him.

Michael gasped and abandoned himself to the
moment. This was better than an alarm clock any day.


He got out of the subway on Sevemh and Fiftieth an hour
later, washed, shaved, newly suited, and with his mind
cleared and body relaxed. Iris and he had a date that
night, but he wasn't thinking about her any more. She
was filed away in the back of his brain. The commuters
around him marched past up the grimy steps and pqured
out into midtown, everybody intent on the day's hustle
ahead, gel:ting those dollars, making that sky-high rent
roll. How was it that he'd signed a deal that upped his
compensation to sixty grand a year, Michael asked
himself, and yet his financial problems were worse than
ever?

He pushed open the door to the Blakely's building and
exchanged morning greetings with the security guard.
Michael made a point of asking how people were doing.
When he'd been a doorman as one of his four jobs
working through college, people had treated him like a
piece of furniture, even people he saw day in, day out, for
months. Cicero never let people push him around, but he
reckoned politeness didn't cost a dime. And in Manhattan,
politeness made you stand out, too.

The elevator came and he looked over his half-decent
suit. The first thing he'd done wheiq the money came in
was to get a bank loan and invest in some clothes. Shoes
and suits did not come cheap. Then there was the new
apartment; for two thousand a month he got a tiny, first
floor, one bedroom TriBeCa walkup with a minute
alcove that served as a den, but it was in a good location.
From now on he was going places, and he should start

with a good address, personal comfort was secondary.
The apartment had space for one double bed, and that
was about all he needed. His bills were already starting to
mount, so he had very little stuff. Hell, minimalism was
supposed to be fashionable anyway. Not that Michael
really cared. It suited him to live where he did, so
everybody else could whistle. Iris had expressed surprise
the first time he took her home, but when she saw his
expression, she'd wisely concluded that maybe she should
shut up.

The fourth floor was deserted, as usual. Michael
racked his brain. Something was meant to be different
today. What was it? He asked Joey to ride up with the
keys, and remembered as he unlocked and switched the
lights on: Diana Foxton was meant to be here. Michael
grinned privately to himself. What was more likely, he
wondered, that she'd be late, or that she wouldn't come
at all?

The sooner she realised that it was a foolish idea, the
better. He really didn't need a time waster in the office.


Diana swung her heels delicately out of the back door of
the Bentley which Richard was holding open for her. She
smiled and tipped him her usual ten dollars, and looked
up at the Blakely's building. This was a first, wasn't it?
To come here and not be picking Ernie up? She pushed
through the heavy glass doors, speed-dialling Felicity on
her cell phone as she did so.

'Darling, are you awake? No?'

Diana punched the elevator button as Joey Petano, on
the front desk, drank in the itsy-bitsy heels and clinging
silk dress.

Felicity sat up in her bed, cell phone pressed to her ear.
When Diana called, she had to be awake. Even at this
ungodly hour.


xx4

'For you, of course I am, Di, sweetie. What's new?
More bad behaviour from Ernie?'

'No, no. He's being a lamb. He said it was a man he
met the other morning. Anyway, I have got myself a job,
working for an affiliate company in the Blakely's
building.'

'Really.' Felicity's heart sank. If Ernie had got her a job
so that she could be close to him, actually in his office,
maybe the marriage wasn't shaky - maybe their intelligence
was all wrong.

'Yes. Not on his floor, about twelve storeys below...
and he had nothing to do with it, I got it myself.'

'That's wonderful,' Felicity said, her face creasing in a
genuine smile. She twitched open her curtains to let the
morning light in. 'A new start for you, dear. What does
Ernie think of all this?'

'He thinks I'll quit, but I won't. Anyway, must dash,
the elevator's here and it'll cut me off.'

'Do call me later, sweetie,' Felicity suggested kindly, as
her friend hung up.

She relaxed against her pillows. That meant Ernie
would be at home on his own right now. Languidly,
Felicity punched the speed-dial for the Foxtons' private
number.


Diana stepped off the .elevator at the fourth floor. The
office lights were on; maybe some inefficient cleaner had
left them on the night before. The door had a small,
unostentatious plaque next to it. Green Eggs Books. A
Blakely's Affiliate Company. Not very impressive,
frankly. Nothing like the bronze etched plate and
statuary that greeted the visitor to the main Blakely's
office, with her husband's name emblazoned all over it.
She would have to see what she could do about that.

She pushed open the door and looked around, disappointed.
Judging from the way Cicero was dressed she

assumed he would at least have come into a little cash.
These offices were clean, spare, functional and little else.
Architectural plans were mounted on the walls, which
were cream and, as she peeked into the individually
locked offices, she noted that the furniture was some kind
of plain, rather old-fashioned brown wood. Sure, it was
light and airy, but couldn't they have been a little more
extravagant, a bit more imaginative? She'd soon persuade
Cicero that her touch was needed to brighten the place up
and--

'Nice to see you, at last.'

Diana jumped out of her skin and spun around. There
he was, lounging against the only open door in the whole
place. He looked relaxed, confident and cocky. One dark
eyebrow was raised as he examined her outfit.

'What are you doing here?' she gasped. 'You scared

me.'

'I scare a lot of people. I don't see why I should scare
you, though. It's eight twenty-five.'

'I'm not late,' Diana said defensively, wondering how
long he'd been standing there. Had he watched her
raising herself on tiptoe peeking in through all the
windows? She blushed. 'You said eight thirty.'

'I said I would be here at eight thirty, and therefore
you should be in at quarter past. You're ten minutes late.'

Normally she'd have about an hour an a half left to lie
in bed right now. Diana swallowed. 'I'm sorry. It won't
happen again.'

Michael registered somewhere deep down that she
hadn't offered him an excuse, but he wasn't all that
mollified. The girl was outrageously, scandalously beautiful.
What did she think she was doing, turning up to his
office looking like that? It was a good thing Iris had been
busy this morning, he told himself, or he'd very definitely
have his concentration shot all day.

'Can we talk about your clothes, Mrs Foxton?'

'You can call me Diana. And yes, you can.' She waited
proudly for the compliments she knew were about.to
flow almost against his will. It must kill Cicero to give
her compliments. 'Go ahead.'

'They aren't suitable for the office.'

Diana started. Had she heard him right? But yes, he
was standing across from her with folded arms and a
direct, frank black stare.

'What's wrong with how I'm dressed, Michael?'
He paused. Actually, he hadn't taken the time to stop
and analyse it. Her neckline wasn't low-cut, and her skirt
reached to below the knee. The silk fabric clung sensuously
to every inch of her, but you couldn't see anything.
Maybe she was actually old-fashioned enough to wear a
slip, or mybe she just wasn't wearing panties. Oh hell.
Now his groin was starting to miraculously recover. Stop
thinking'like that, Cicero, he lectured himself sternly. Cut
that out.

'Your shoes,' he said, grasping at a straw. 'Strappy
sandals aren't good for office attire. And I prefer Mr
Cicero, Diana.'

II7


Chapter 14


Diana struggled to keep her cool. 'You prefer to be called what?'

'Mr Cicero. This is my company, and I'm the president.
I like a formal attitude; it promotes respect.'

The big brute was staring her down. He was deadly
serious. Diana wondered angrily if she should go back to
Mrs Foxton, but she didn't want to look childish: Blast
him!

'If you have a formal office dress code, Mr Cicero, you
should have told me that before I got into work. Then I
could have conformed to it,' she shot back.

Michael suppressed a smile of admiration. She was
quick on her feet for a spoiled brat. But he wasn't going
to give her her head - Michael was the boss here, and he
had guys ten years older than he was reporting to him
now. It was vital to maintain control, otherwise things
would start slipping. And he didn't like it when things
started doing that.

'We do have a formal dress code,' he replied, 'but
you're right, we don't have it written up. You can bring a
dictation pad into my office after you've made my coffee.
And that'll be your first task as my assistant. You'll meet
the other people you'll be reporting to later.'

'Other people? I thought I was your assistant,' Diana
said, bleakly.

She had the most awful feeling that this job wasn't
going to be nearly as much fun as she'd anticipated.
'You're one of them - the most junior, as I said, a Girl


ii8

Friday. Susan is my senior assistant, so you'll answer her
phones when she's busy, make her coffee, and do
whatever filing and photocopying she needs. She'll show
you where all of that stuff is.'

'Great,' said Diana, with heavy sarcasm that Michael
totally ignored.

'Follow me. I'll show you the kitchen.'

Diana made a face at Cicero's broad back as she
teetered behind him towards the kitchen. It was functional
like the rest of the space and absolutely tiny. She
hadn't seen a kitchen this small since she was sharing a
flat with her girlfriends back in London.

'Here's the kettle, the coffee machine, tea, coffee, and
cookies. I keep milk and half and half in the fridge,
employees c, an put their personal foods in there too, if
they have bagels, or whatever. One of your duties is to
keep the kitchen clean and nicely stocked. Our budget is
forty dollars a week for everything, so keep within that.
Mugs are up here.'


'Where's the dishwasher?' Diana asked, horrified. He
was telling her she had to clean up a kitchen?

'There isn't one. You'll do all that yourself. Mostly you

won't spend much time in the kitchen, though.'
'Good,' Diana said faintly.

'You'll be too. busy filing and typing.'

Diana steadied herself. Was it her imagination, or were
her shoes already starting to hurt? She couldn't take
much more of this, and the day hadn't even started yet.
But Cicero was looking at her in these heels, he was
maybe an inch shorter than she was, but it still felt like he
was looking down at her - like he was trying to hide a
smile at her dismay, like he expected her to quit any
second.

Diana was spoiled and lazy, but she was also extremely
stubborn. Her pride made her lift her head as she
smoothed down her dress.

'Sounds good.'

'So we'll get to it. Fix me a coffee, and one for yourself,
if you want, and then come down to my office at the end

of the hall, and we'll make a start.'

'Right,' Diana agreed.

She watched him as he turned sharply on one heel and
marched off down the corridor. I hate him, she thought.
Resentfully, she switched on the percolator and started to
fish around for the filter cups. Thank God Felicity could
not see her now. It was all too humiliating.


Ernie had invited her over out of curiosity. He dealt with prying industry reporters every day, and he knew veiled
insinuations when he heard them. This Felicity woman, a
good-looking bird, one of Diana's crowd, he vaguely
remembered her. It was weird for a woman to call a man
out of the blue, wasn't it? Anyway, Ernie enjoyed gossip.
He had closed some good deals from indiscreet tidbits
from wives. Who was this Felicity hitched to? He
couldn't recall. But Mira had not called this morning probably
disciplining some other guy, the hot little slut so
Ernie had time to muck about.

He had Consuela prepare a lavish breakfast and serve
it out on Diana's recently landscaped terrace. He dismissed
her, and settled down to wait. You didn't need the
servants listening in when business was being discussed.
Little bastards might go out and place orders with some
online broker and make money off your insider info.
Ernie didn't know if Consuela's English was up to that,
but he didn't propose to take any chances. He had got
rich by following a number of principles, one of which
was to never take anything for granted, and another of
which was never to trust a soul.

Felicity was ushered onto the roof terrace about forty
minutes later, and Ernie was not disappointed. She was a
lean little madam, much more in the standard New York


I2.0

style than his Diana, whippet-thin with glossy platinum
hair, and a sharp, short dress in cranberry silk matched
up with - nice - steep stilettos. They could do some
serious damage walking up and down his back. Ernie
could almost feel the sharp heels in his skin. His groin
stirred mildly. He was intrigued.

'Felicity, nice to see you again. Take a seat.'
Dreadful accent, Felicity thought, sitting down and
making sure to leave him a high view of her thighs,
grasped at the top by viciously strong hold-ups. She was wearing panties, if you could call a see-through Calvin
Klein thong panties. What a delicious pad they had here.
Quite wasted on an English country lass like little Diana.

'What a stunning garden. Diana really excelled herself,'
she coped as she settled opposite him.

'Yeah, I s'pose she did. Want a juice?'

Ernie lifted the pitcher of squeezed blood oranges and
made to pour them for her. He felt slightly adrift; he
didn't know quite the right thing to say, the way Di
always did. This girl's sharp spikes were in his face,
though. He couldn't concentrate. Ernie glanced admiringly
at her long talons, blood-red, just like Mira Chen's.
Mmmh. Not bad.

'Thank you. I suppose you're wondering why I've
come?'

'The thought ]aad crossed my mind. Though it's a
pleasure to see you,' Ernie added, as gallantly as he
could.

'I hope - I hope you won't think I'm being forward if I
asked you to keep what I tell you in the strictest
confidence,' Felicity purred.

Ernie perked up. Good, she was gonna spill the beans
on something valuable.

'Not in the least. I'm very discreet, and I like my
friends to be, too. As far as I'm concerned this nice
breakfast never happened.'


II

'I hoped you'd see it like that,' Felicity murmured. 'To
be honest, I didn't know who else I should turn to. But
I'm rather worried about dear Diana, and I thought you
should know what people are saying.'

Ernie's brows knitted together and he leant forward on
his wrought-iron seat. 'And what, exactly, are people
saying, Felicity?'


Ernie stormed into his office, flinging his coat at a
quailing Marcia.

'What's the schedule for today?' he demanded.

'You have Goldman Sachs at ten thirty, lunch with
Dom Floyd from--'

'Never mind. Just print it off and bring it in here. With

coffee. And hurry up,' Ernie snapped.

'Yes, sir.'

'And get me last month's sales breakdown by region.
What are you waiting for?'

Marcia sensed his mood and fled with a muttered
apology. Ernie slammed his inner door and flung himself
i6to his dark leather chair, spinning as it swivelled,
murderously angry.

Thankfully Felicity had laad the sense actually to come
to him. What would he have done if she hadn't told him
what was going on? Ernie loved gossip; but he absolutely
hated gossip that was directed at him. What bloody right
did Diana have to go around whining and mouthing off
to a bunch of New York tarts like Jodie Goodfriend and
Natasha Zuckerman? Their husbands would be laughing
at him over lunch at their clubs today. Probably by now
the story had gone all round New York. Ernie had no
doubt at all that he'd be reading about it in the gossip
columns at some stage this week. He looked out of his
huge windows at the stone forest of midtown. Full of
people who might be reading about him ... discussing
him ... laughing at him.


"I2.2.

Ernie had found it hard going at first, climbing the
New York ladder. His social life had been the answer:
Diana and Ernie, the new golden couple in town. I'm a
good husband, Ernie thought. She spends for England
and I never say a word but the first little problem, and
she's washing our dirty laundry in some downtown caf4,
making me look ridiculous.

He could just see the headlines. '"Princess" Diana in
Marriage Mess!' His lovely faqade shattered for no
reason. It wasn't like Diana actually enjoyed sex, or that
he'd showed her up in public - he'd never taken Mira to
any of their habitual restaurants, or squired the bitch to
some public function. If Diana felt she'd had a problem,
she could have come to him, couldn't she? But noooooo,
Ernie though, t, angrily, to himself. Not to me, to some
clique of witches which is as good as taking out a frontpage
ad in'the New York Times.

He swivelled round on his ergonomic chair and.sipped
his flagrant coffee, served up by Marcia in a Limoges
cup. It did nothing to soothe him. What were riches and
power if you looked ridiculous?

In five minutes of brooding, Ernie had convinced
himself that he was the victim. He was the one who had
been played falsely. That silly little cow. Diana was a
fucking embarrassment.

He pulled a report on distribution out of his desk
drawer and went through it with a yellow magic marker,
slashing whole sections and finding extra places where
they could lay off workers and boost profits. How this
frigging company had survived so long without going
under was a mystery to him. It carried so much fat, and
for what? For a so-called gilt-edged reputation? The only
things he wanted round him gilt-edged were his stocks,
Ernie mused. Anyway. Back to the current problem, one
more damn thing he had to worry about. He had a PR
department here that took care of press problems for "


xz3

him, and it was highly paid and effective. Diana was his
at-home PR department, except that she'd now be getting
him exactly the kind of attention he spent a fortune'
avoiding.

Why couldn't she be more understanding? That was
the question. Ernie brooded angrily. Marcia came back in
with the sales report and he snatched it from her without
a word. Who was Diana kidding, exactly? There had
been an unspoken agreement between them from day one
as to what this marriage was going to be. It wasn't that
many girls who were kept in the lap of luxury without
ever having to lift a finger, was it? Sex with Diana had
been OK at first, but it was boring as hell now. She
wasn't a fit match for him.

I work hard to keep that little cow in the style of a
fucking movie star, Ernie thought. Least I should be
entitled to is a little fun. All on the down note, no
scandal, nothing.

He thought of Felicity. She was a good mate, that girl.
Felt he should be warned, but didn't say a word against
Diana. She'd made lots of jokes, like she didn't believe
the story Diana dreamed up, but if it was true, who really
cared? What had she said? 'A wife does one job, a
mistress another. That may seem very European to you, I
suppose--' and laughed. Ernie wasn't sure exactly where
the Yanks got the idea that in Europe every married man
had a mistress and it was socially acceptable - from what
he could tell it was exactly the opposite - it was the New
York way of doing things. But he liked Felicity's joke,
and he agreed with her. Got her head screwed on, that
broad. Who was she married to? Couldn't recall. Come
to think of it, he didn't recall a wedding ring either. He'd
have to look her up. Marcia kept a Rolodex out there
with a few choice facts about everybody he knew. That
way, if Joe Bloggs called, he could ask about baby Janie
Bloggs or his recent fly-fishing vacation in Canada and

give a good impression of somebody who actually gave a
fuck.

He thought he might give Felicity a little Rolex. Just 'a
thank you. At least he had a chance of containing the
damage now. Yesterday night he'd felt bad when Diana
asked him about it. Now, wounded, angry, victimised,
Ernie burned with indignation. He'd have to have a little
heart to heart with her and lay down the law.

'Marcia,' he said, pressing his buzzer to the outer
office, 'get me Mira Chert on the phone. See if you can fit
in a PR meeting with her about five p.m.'

'Yes, Mr Foxton,' Marcia said, carefully neutral.
Ernie breathed out. It was the best he'd felt all day.
And anyway, if Diana didn't like it, it was his way or the
highway.


Diana stumbled as she pushed open the door that divided
her tiny cubicle from Susan Katz's small, neat office. Oh
bugger, bugger! There went another strap. That was a
five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes ruined, just ruined! She
looked down at the nail of her right forefinger and saw
that it was damaged. Chipped! What was the point of
finding the best manicurist in town and waiting for weeks
on an appointment and then walking around with a
chipped nail? She felt like crying. Her mascara had
smudged so badly from her perspiration she'd had to
wipe it off, her ankles were swollen from all this
ridiculous running around, and she was up and down
fetching everybody's coffee like some sixteen-year-old
waitress.

The phone on her desk trilled annoyingly.

'Just a minute,' Diana called out towards Susan Katz,
who had just buzzed her - again. She snatched up the
phone. 'Green Eggs, Mr Cicero's office.'

Damn. It was so humiliating, having to say that.
Michael Cicero acted like he was Julius Caesar. Of

course assistants did do that but not her, not Diana
Foxton. Being a working woman was more work than
she was used to.

'Diana! Darling, it's me, Claire.'

Diana bit her plump lip as a new blush rocked over
her. Oh, man. Claire at least ran her little design
business. Now she would know just how lowly a position
Diana had taken.

'How are you? I heard you got a new job.'

'If you can call it that.'

'Don't be silly.' Claire chuckled warmly, in a way that
reminded Diana of Milla. 'Practically everybody starts
out as a secretary. It can lead on to great things, you
know. And the top assistants make a lot of money. Josh
would be lost without his.'

'Well, it's only temporary.' Just until Ernie starts to
miss me. 'I was getting a bit bored,' Diana lied furiously.

'Good for you. I knew you had too many brains to be
out there as a professional shopper, like those wretched
Miller-girls.'

Diana's fist clenched. She had done just fine as a
'professional shopper'.

'That's so sweet of you, Claire, but I've got to dash.
My boss is buzzing me.'

'Take care. And congratulations,' Claire said warmly.
Diana hung up and hurried into Susan's room.

'You buzzed me, Susan?' Diana asked, annoyed. She
was in the middle of filing endless vacation rosters. Susan
had buzzed her five minutes ago, too. What could be so
important?

'Yes,' Susan said, coolly, and with evident enjoyment.
Bitch. Bitch! Diana thought, but not out loud, as that
loathsome Michael had told her Susan Katz was her
immediate boss. More like Catty than Katz. Susan Catty.
Kit-Catty, Diana thought. 'I wanted another herbal tea
when you're ready.'

I'm just doing this filing, right now. Why don't you get
your own tea?' Diana snapped.

'Do you have a problem you'd like to discuss with Mr

Cicero?' Susan asked sweetly.

'No. That's fine.'

'Whenever you're ready then. That'll be all,' Susan
said, waving her away dismissively.

Diana glanced at her watch. Could it really only be
z p.m.? Was it worth it? There had to be some better
way to get Ernie's attention.

'Chapter 1 5


Susan watched Diana go and scowled at her departing
back. Unbelievable. She had worked for Michael day in,
day out, before they got these flash new offices and the
sales reps and the commissioning editors, and she had
been indispensable. She'd done more than filing and
typing: she'd organised his entire life. She'd dressed so
carefully, too, and never once protested at the long hours
and the total lack of flirtation from him, the handsome
bastard. And now this.

Who the hell was Diana Foxton that she should just
swan in here? Who ever heard of a twenty-nineyear-old
Girl Friday? Susan hated her already. That marvellously
sdnsual shirtdress with the lining - pure silk, of course beautifully
belted, a sort of Forces look, like a feisty
World War Two heroine. Did anybody have the right to
be so lovely?

Susan didn't kid herself about Diana's beauty. She
knew exactly the kind of girl Diana was - not model
perfect, because despite the evident amounts of hard cash
that had gone into making her skin, teeth and hair as
shiny as a prize racehorse's, she would never fit the rail
thin Gwyneth Paltrow ideal of boyish beauty. But the
old-fashioned kind of man, the type, in fact, that despite
her boyfriend Susan was becoming more and more afraid
she really liked - that kind of man would be attracted to
Diana like a nail to a magnet.

As a woman considering a rival, Susan watched Diana
move down the corridor, stumbling on her silly heels, and


iz8

assessed her. Great ass. Susan went jogging in the Park
for hours and lifted weights with her heels and she would
never get a high, tight rounded butt like that. Did Diafia
have to walk with that wiggle? At least that was probably
the heels. And her cheeks and lips! Susan wore neutral
make-up, too, but she never managed to make it look like
Diana's, like there was just a whisper of colour on her
cheeks, like her skin was just naturally, softly
glowing...

I'd have assumed Michael was fucking her, Susan
thought angrily, except that he doesn't screw around in
the office, and that now there's that Iris chick - oh yeah,
and Lady Diana here is married to the big boss of
Blakely's.

Of course,, that had to be it. It wasn't that Diana was
Michael's latest toy, it was that her husband had given
them all this extra cash and clout. Michael was doing
some kind of favour for Ernie Foxton.

Susan resented Iris - but there were obvious reasons
for that. She didn't really know why she loathed this stuck-up little madam so much. At least Diana no longer
looked quite as polished, quite as perfect, as she had prior
to all the filing Susan had her do. She lifted the neatly
printed-off dress code that Diana had written up, pointing
out her own violations. Flat shoes. Minimal make-up
for female employees. NO jewellery other than a watch,
signet and marital rings, plus any religious items. Skirt
length was to be on or below the knee. Judging from that
shirtdress, Mrs Foxton was a fashion plate. There was no
question but that she'd quit. Flat shoes? Fat chance.

Susan worked hard and shared an apartment with four
other girls, and Diana was doing this job solely to pose
and--

The buzzer on her desk sounded.

'Susan, could you bring me in the bookseller reports,
please?'

I29


'Coming, Mr Cicero,' she said, her spirits rising.


Diana sat in the file room and brushed angry tears off the
end of her nose. No way was she going to let the vile
Susan see her like this. Or any of the other people in the
office. Jake Harold was the new commissioning editor,
and there was Rachel Lilly, the distribution chief,-and
Felix Custer in business affairs, and Michael. Diana
cordially detested all of them; barking orders at her,
telling her to do this and do that, no matter what else she
was trying to finish. Rachel, Felix and Jake all had
assistants and all the assistants were absolutely hateful
too. Well. Diana dabbed the end of her sleeve to her eyes
and put down her load of filing. Filing was really beastly,
nasty stuff; but it would have to wait, because Suan Katz
wanted her herbal tea.

The kitchen wasn't empty; Kara and Helen, Jake and
Felix's assistants, were in there eating yoghurts and
lounging against a wall. They stopped talking as soon as

Diana appeared. She pasted a smile on her face.

'How's it going?' Diana murmured.

'Oh, not bad.' She had the definite impression that
redheaded Helen had just been talking about her. She did
not enjoy that nasty smile that was hovering on the girl's
lips. 'We're just discussing ...'

'... the traffic,' Kara said, hastily.

'Oh, it's dreadful. Insane.' Diana tried to be friendly.

'Excuse me, I have to get Susan a herbal tea.'

They drew aside.

'Where do you guys live?'

'East Village.'

'Alphabet City,' they said, exchanging looks. Who did

the limey broad think she was? Everybody knew she lived
on Central Park West in a place that was bigger than
their entire apartment buildings.

'I have to go downtown tonight,' Diana lied manfully.
'We could give you a lift.'

'Your husband's coming to pick you up?' Helen askel.
Helen tugged down on the navy Sears suit she'd bought
on sale last week. She was thirty-eight, and the chances of
finding a suitable man seemed to plummet with every
month that went by. She was a new hire to this company,
but she didn't like Diana either. Young women who
married older men meant older women couldn't find a
decent man to save their lives.

'Oh no. Ernie works late usually. No, I'll send for my
driver when I'm ready to go.'

Send for my driver? Kara thought: She was still paying
off her student loan.

'I think we'll manage,' Helen said dryly.
'Excuse.me,' Kara snapped.

Both women turned on their heels and marched out,
shooting Diana nasty looks.

Hell, she thought, what's got into them?


Tired, exhausted and horribly messy, Diana struggled
through her first day. Her cubicle was tiny and windowless,
Susan was on her back all day, she had paper cuts on
her fingertips and snags in her nails, and the work they
did ask her to do was boring in the extreme. Her shoes
were broken, her sheer make-up had not survived and she
felt wiped out. On top of which, everybody in the office
was sneering at her. Sneering! At her!

Diana tried to console herself with the thought that her
beauty budget would have eaten up about half Susan's
salary, but she felt ugly and heavy and klutzy, and that
didn't much help, either. Outside Kara's window, across
the hall, light, miserable rain was starting to fall and grey
clouds obscured the tops of the skyscrapers. Diana sighed
and looked at the clock for the millionth time that'

afternoon. Only four fifteen. Time must run on a special
slow schedule in offices.

Her phone buzzed and she wearily depressed the
button.

'Hi, Susan. Herbal tea or coffee?'

'It's not Susan, it's me.'

Just what she needed. Diana bit down on her lip.
'Yes, Mr Cicero.' Ooh, that hurt. Mr Cicero. She
wanted to slap him, but that probably wasn't wise.
Damn him for offering her this lousy job, and damn him
for smirking at her so that she was too proud to quit!
'What can I get you?'

'Nothing. You can get in here. Bring a notepad.'

'OK.' Diana grunted. There was a low chuckle from
the phone.

'Careful, you're sounding a little too enthusiastic,'
Michael's disembodied voice said.

Diana hung up on him and marched into his office. She
shut the door behind her, and the whirring sounds of the
Xerox and their constantly ringing fax machine were
silenced. Almost involuntarily, she drew in a long,
shuddering sigh of breath.

Michael was standing looking out of his window at the
wet, crawling traffic marching slowly up Seventh
Avenue. Diana regarded the stocky, firm set of his back,
the muscles visible even through the newly tailored cloth.
He turned round and gave her a broad smile, tilting his
head and showing her his busted-up nose.

'I read your dress-code report,' he said. 'Take a seat.'
Diana flopped into the chair in front of him and
scowled. 'There's something wrong with the report? I do
think, Mr Cicero, you might have said something before
now.'

'I only just got around to reading it,' Cicero said flatly.
'I had more important things to get to.'

Of course you did, you patr0nising jerk, Diana said to
herself. 'I see.'

Cicero lifted her two pieces of paper in one large paw

and waved it at her. 'I read this. I was quite surprised.'
'It can't have been that bad,' Diana protested, angrily.
Hell, Michael thought, look at that girl. He told
himself not to start thinking about how a female
employee looked. She'd annoyed him when she swarmed
in this morning looking so gorgeous and polished and
disturbing, and now that she seemed to have gone ten
rounds with Mike Tyson, she was.., stunning. Undeniably.
And still, so arrogant. The aristocratic, upward tilt
of her head, the soft, defiant slight .pout of her lips : ..
Cicero had an intense desire to crush her to him and kiss
all that rebelliousness away.

'It wasn't,' he said, as coldly as he could manage. 'Why

don't you'let me finish before you interrupt me?'

'I'm sorry, Mr Cicero.'

'It was actually quite well done. I gave you very spare
notes and you produced something clear and businesslike.
You've got a crisp turn of phrase.'

Thanks for the English lesson, Diana thought. 'I'm
glad you were pleased. Does this mean I get a
promotion?'

She crossed her legs, the wrong way, to hide her busted
strap as best she could, and tossed her blond hair behind
her shoulders.

'No, it doesn't. You need more than one job done well
to get promoted. It might mean that I increase your
workload, though. Give you some other basic duties and
rosters to type up. Such as guidelines for ordering in
office supplies. We don't have an office manager here, so

all my executives take care of that stuff themselves.'
'Sounds thrilling,' Diana grunted.

'Don't be sarcastic, please, Diana. Everybody starts at
the bottom.'

33

'I suppose you started at the bottom, did you?' Diana
demanded. She knew she should drop it, but somehow
her mouth was no longer listening to her brain.

'That depends.' Her boss lolled back in his chair in that
confident way of his. His dark eyes on her made her shift in the chair. 'If you call working eighteen-hour days and
cycling for miles with two boxes of books, going door to
door trying to shift them, starting at the bottom, then yes,
I qualify.'

Diana shrugged. She didn't particularly care to hear
about Michael Cicero's struggles. Nobody here gives a
damn about me, she thought. Why should I care about
them?

'Now, take this down. These are our rules about
calling in sick, vacation planning and reordering supplies.
I'd like you to type them out like you did with the dress
code. Maybe you could put together a small folder for
everybody with all our separate policies in. It can be your
project.'

My, how thrilling, Diana thought. 'What about all my
filing and typing?'

'You'll still be doing that. This will be additional.'
Diana pushed herself to her feet, furious, and took a
step towards Michael Cicero. To her extreme annoyance,
he did nothing but grin.

'You want to quit?' Cicero asked. There was a gently
amused note in his voice. 'It's OK, really. This is very
basic, very easy work that lots of kids would like to do. I
can see why you wouldn't want to persevere. You hardly
need the salary.'

'It's got nothing to do with the salary,' Diana said,
fuming. 'It's to do with the work.'

'What work? All you have to do is file and answer the
phones and make some coffee. You should see the hours
Susan Katz put in when she first came to work for me.
You maybe think writing up a few reports is too .tough?'

134


'Of course it isn't.' Diana sat down again. 'I wasn't
going to quit - Mr Cicero.'

'Then why were you standing up, glaring at me?'
Diana shook her head. 'I was - just stretching. I'm
perfectly happy here,' she said, bristling with hostility,
'and I'll be happy to organise all your reports.'

'Good.' Michael looked down at his notepad, which
offered some refuge for his eyes, away from the serious
double threat of her breasts. 'Then let's get started.'


It was only half four when Diana left the office.

'Do you mind if I leave early, Susan?' she asked. 'My
head is splitting. I think I have a migraine coming on.'

Susan Katz smirked. 'Of course not. I'll be here for at
least another two hours. If the refrigerator is clean, you
can go home now.'

The look on her face said she just couldn't wait to tell
Michael about this.

Well, thanks, ma'am. 'See you tomorrow, then,' Diana
said, as cheerfully as she could fake. She switched her
computer off at the wall and tidied up the papers on her
desk, rather than give the bitch any more ammunition.
She was so enervated, she could hardly think straight. All
she wanted to do was to sink into the limo, go home and
get into a spa bath. What madness had possessed her to
tell Michael Cicero she didn't want to quit? Oh well.
Time enough for that tomorrow. All Diana cared about
was getting out of that door.

As the elevator doors hissed shut behind her, Diana felt
her spirits lift. Tomorrow she'd quit; and that bunch of
catty secretaries could go to hell with their herbal teas
and their filing. She would have to find another way to be
interesting to Ernie. A vacation, for example. Yes. Right
now that sounded really good. Diana poked her head out
of the door and saw the familiar, comforting sight of
Richard, her driver, with the limo purring sedately at the


35

curbside, waiting for her. As he opened the door for her,
muttering something about a pleasant day, Diana felt as
though she were shrugging a backpack full of heavy
weights from her shoulders. A bath was what she needed.
Americans didn't bathe, they showered, but she needed a
soak, an hour with a cloud of scented water courtesy of
Floris and then a long rub-down with some Shea butter
from L'Occitane. Once I've changed for dinner and taken
off these shoes which pinch like hell, Diana told herself,
firmly, I'll feel more human. She might call Felicity and
see if she wanted to do something, maybe catch a last
minute show, like Rent, or Chicago again. Possibly the
answer was just to make an emergency call to AnneMarie,
her French reflexologist, and have her rub her feet
for an hour.

Ernie liked to keep a full bar stocked in the back of the
car, although he rarely drank during the day. It was just
there to impress other CEOs. Right now Diana was
grateful for it. She poured herself a Bourbon and Coke
and sipped it through the heavy crystal, watching
mfdtown slip noiselessly past her sound-proofed, darkened
windows.

Eventually she started to relax. The tight coils of
pressure in her back began to unwind. It was dark and
cold outside, but their building loomed up in front of her,
well lit, friendly and welcoming. Her stupid little job
suddenly seemed a total joke. She would quit tomorrow,
definitely. Let that bitch Susan make her own goddamn
coffee.

The doorman blinked at her as she swept into the
lobby, giving him an automatic smile. Diana didn't talk
to the help much, but she made a point of smiling and
being friendly. Ernie tended to ignore them. The heavy,
gold-decorated elevator hissed open,, and Diana stepped
inside and pressed the button for the penthouse, turning
her key in the lock.


36

The apartment was well lit even though Consuela had
a half day off. Maybe she had forgotten to switch off the
lights. Diana kicked off her shoes, groaning pleasurably
in anticipation of her long soak.

Then she froze. There was a voice coming from the
bedroom. A woman's voice. Diana knew her staff and
her friends, and this wasn't one of them. A prickling
burst of adrenaline crackled through her skin. Could it be
a burglar? But that was impossible. Security here was
outstanding. Even the elevator shaft was wired with
alarms. Maybe Consuela had invited one of her friends
over while the lady of the house was at work. If so, she
would have to deal with it herself. Ernie would fly into a
rage. Sighing, Diana slipped her shoes back on and
walked quietly over to her bedroom.

It was a woman. Tall and much thinner than Diana,
almost bony from the back. She was standing bent over
in front of Diana's exclusively designed walk-in closet,
the small inner sanctum that was just hers, where even
her husband and her best friends never came. A tight fist
of anger closed around Diana's heart as she noticed what
the woman was wearing: one of her dresses, a silky, red
velvet evening gown by Richard Tyler, cut to drape over
her voluptuous curves like a a toga over a Roman
goddess. It hun loosely off the bony shoulders of the
intruder. With a simmering wash of rage bubbling up
inside her, Diana glanced down to the woman's feet.
They were poking out of her brand new Manolos, the
strappy sandals she had so delighted .in when she picked
them up in his boutique last week. Diana was disgusted
now. She would never wear them again, she knew that.
Were jobs so easy to come by in America these days that
Consuela would do this to a good employer?

Diana found the voice that seemed to have frozen in
her throat.


37

'Excuse me,' she said, loudly and coldly. 'Exactly what

do you think you're doing?'

The intruder spun around, mouth open, starting with a

little jump.

It was Mira Chen.

Chapter 16


Diana stared down at her. Her brain seemed to be as
frozen as her body.

How repulsive. How disgusting. How - how silly. Mira Chen. The name had been haunting her suspicious
thoughts for days, and now she was here in the flesh. A
small part of Diana, a small corner of her brain - the part
that said 'you're drunk' when she was - couldn't help but
run over the face and figure of her rival. She had hardly
noticed her at the last dinner party, there was nothing
there but a vague memory of hating the tight, tarry dress
the woman had worn.

Diana's red dress hung off Mira like a nasty smell
hanging in the air. It was so much too big for her. She felt
a sudden pang of insecurity about her body. The extra
folds of fabric, peeling back off Mira, seemed like a fresh
insult. I should lose a few pounds, Diana admonished
herself. No more. sour cream and chopped egg yolk with
her caviar. She tried to shake herself out of her random
thoughts. The fact was that there were only three keys to
the elevator. Consuela would not pal around with a
woman like Mira Chen, and the second key was sitting
tight in Diana's purse.

Ernie had let Mira in. Ernie had let her try on Diana's
clothes. Maybe Ernie had given her her own key.

Mira was red-faced, sputtering like a landed fish.

'We didn't think you'd be home,' she muttered,
eventually.

Diana steadied herself against the solid oak of her'


x39

doorway. There was a rush of blood to her head and her

heart. Desperately she tried to pull herself together. We?

'Is Ernie here?' she managed to say.

The door from Ernie's private bathroom swung open

and he entered their room. His skinny frame was wet
from the shower, and he was wrapped in his navy-blue
cashmere bathrobe. I gave him that for Christmas, Diana
thought.

'You're early,' he said, looking at her stupidly. 'Why

are you home?'

'I had a headache.'

She didn't ask him what they were doing. It was
painfully, embarrassingly obvious. The girls' voices came
back to her. Everybody knew. It was all over town.

She dug deep for a reserve of dignity. How little he

must really care about her, to do this to her. Fucking that
tramp in her apartment. Letting her try on her clothes.
What other things of mine has she worn? Diana wondered.
Paraded around in?

She turned to Mira.

"Get out of my things, and then get out of my
apartment.'

The small, compact little body was already struggling

out of the dress.

'Hurry up,' Diana said coldly, 'or I'll have to call
security.'

She looked at Ernie. He had gone red-faced with
embarrassment and now, as he .faced her, with spite.

'You can't call security,' he said nastily, 'I asked her

here.'

'I realise that.' Diana's voice seemed to be coming from
someone else, some other girl located at the far end of a
tunnel. 'But I didn't, so if you don't want this all over the
front page of the papers I suggest you let me handle it.'

Ernie fell sullenly silent. Tears had started to prickle at

the back of Diana's eyes and she fought for better


I4o

control. She turned on her rival. 'Hurry up, Mira, would
you? Hadn't you better get going? I think some of you, r
regulars down on Forty-second Street will be getting
impatient.'

She was rather proud of that sally. Maybe not the
wittiest, but not bad at the last minute. Diana regarded
Mira Chen. She was super-skinny and her hair was
broken and tattered at the ends. And this was who her
husband had been with all the nights she'd waited up
alone?

'Ernie is my only regular,' Mira said smugly.

'Somehow I doubt that. Now get out,' Diana snapped.
'I want to talk to my husband.'

Mira looked over at Ernie as she struggled back into
her pants, iut he avoided her eyes. 'I'll see you later,
honey,' she purred, and swept out past Diana, deliberately
joshhag past her shoulder.

'Oof.' Diana pinched her nose. 'Next time try to use
a little less of that lavatory air freshener you're wearing.
You're going to stink up my clothes.'

Mira opened her mouth for a catty comeback, but
Diana wasn't having it. 'Get out. Your lap-dancing job is
waiting. Plenty of dirty old men in booths want value for
their Viagra.'

She shoved Enie's mistress into the elevator and
punched the lobby button, then turned back to her
husband. Ernie was busily tightening the robe's soft belt
around his skinny little flame. His hair was plastered
with sweat. Hell, she thought. She knew she'd never get
that image out of her mind. Sexuality was something best
avoided, in Diana's opinion, but although she didn't
know what turned her on she knew what turned her off.
Mira in her clothes? Her stomach was churning. She
wanted to vomit.

Weakly, Diana steadied herself on one of the wide
sofas. Now that bitch was gone she felt she had nothing'

holding her up. Central Park swam outside their huge
windows, and Diana's knees buckled and she sank onto
the leather.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Ernie had righted himself and now he was shouting at

her. His plucked brows knitted together and his face was
purple. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. 'You came
back early. It's your own fault.'

'Oh, right,' Diana said, faintly. 'I see. It's my fault you

were unfaithful, fucking some slut in our bedroom?'

'She might be a slut,' Ernie said nastily, 'but at least she

can fuck.'

Diana breathed in. Time had stopped for her.

'Then that makes one of you, I suppose,' she snapped.

She was completely adrift. What was the-smart,
groomed, pulled-together woman's response to catching
her husband in flagrante? Her style was failing her. She
had no idea how to act. Those betraying tears were
thickening her voice in the back of her throat and
squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, no matter how
sh tried to blink them back.

'I'm a fantastic lover,' Ernie insisted. His voice had

gone high-pitched and wavery. 'You're the one with the
problem. Mira says I'm the best she ever had.'

'And how much are you paying her to tell you that?'
'You can talk. You don't exactly come cheap, darlin'.'

'I am your wife. I deserve more than this.' Diana
sobbed.

'Oh you do?' Ernie's tone was nasty. 'You deserve

what, exactly? After going and talking about our personal
business to a bunch of slappers that have blabbed it
all round town? You couldn't come to me, love, could
you? No - you have to make me look like a fucking idiot
and have girls ring me up---'

'What girls? Who rang you up?' Diana wept. 'I did

come to you, Ernie! And you lied to me!'


4z

'But not until you'd already gone to a bunch of
harridans. Let me give it to you straight, girl.' Ernie
folded his thin arms and stared at her. 'You aren't mide
for sex and a man needs that. I thought you'd be discreet.
Understanding. If you hadn't shoved your nose in my
business you would never have been hurt.'

'You have to give up that whore. I want her fired,'
Diana said, trying to ignore the large tear that had
splashed off her lashes onto the end of her nose. Thank
goodness she'd had to wipe off her mascara earlier.
Waterproof never was.

'Well now, that wouldn't be fair. She could bring a
sex-harassment suit, too. And she'd win. I don't want to
take the chance.'

'At least have her transferred. To another country.'
'No,' Ernie said reflectively, 'I don't think I will. It's
not her ult. Maybe I like having her here. Maybe if you
were better in bed I wouldn't need her. Anyway, I work
fucking hard and you need to deal with me 'ow I am.'

Diana drew herself up to her full height and wiped the
tears from her eyes. 'You're going to have to make a
decision, Ernie. If you really need a little slut like that, go
ahead. But you'll have to choose. Her or me.'
'Don't you try to threaten me,' Ernie screeched at her
departing back. 'And don't think I'm moving into a hotel
either. I paid for the bloody pad and I'll come home when
I feel like it.'

'And when will that be?' Diana demanded, one hand
on the door. It was so hard to see with water in your
eyes.

'Whenever I fucking feel like it,' Ernie snarled, 'maybe
after I'm done with Mira. Tell you what, Di. Don't wait

up.'

Diana burst into tears and ran from the room.

She rushed out onto the street and tried to get a cab,
but it was rush hour and nothing was free. Diana fought

143


to stop herself dissolving into a messy puddle. No cabs,
and now she had to walk down to the Park in her broken,
achy high heels. She caught sight of herself in a shop
window. Her hair was blown into messy strands, her
ankles looked swollen, her eyes were reddened and her
make-up had run. Oh please, Diana thought, don't let
anybody I know see me now.

A horn was blaring loudly in the traffic. Diana tried to

ignore it and moved forwards, tightly gripping her
handbag.

The horn blared louder.

'Diana!'

She spun on her heel, and saw Felicity Metson, leaning

out of the window of her BMW, looking trim and
polished in a new pink hat and shades that reflecved the
early evening sun. 'Whatever is the matter?'

'Oh, Fee, thank God you're here,' Diana sobbed. She

ran forwards into the traffic and Felicity leaned over to

unlock the back door.

'Darling, hop in. Whatever can have happened? Were

you mugged?'

'Nothing like that. Oh, Felicity, I can't go home,'

Diana said weepily. 'Can you ta.ke me to your place?

Could I stay with you tonight?'

'Of course you can, sweetie. Although I can't think

why you would want to.' In the front seat, Felicity's fist

curled into a cruel little ball.

Something had obviously happened. Something bad.

The perfectly pulled-together Diana was crying in the
street. Felicity had been on her way to pay her a visit, ask
her out to lunch tomorow, try to dig up some more dirt
on their shaking marriage.

Felicity had looked like this the day she found out her
husband was gay. It was the face of a woman in the pit. A
girl who felt utterly, completely betrayed. And she was
going to want Felicity to pick up the pieces.

I44


The rain had started up again by the time they Rot
downtown. Diana lay curled up on Felicity's uncomfortable
leather couch, swathed in an enveloping white
towelling robe. She had taken a long, hot bubble bath at
her friend's insistence - 'absolutely nothing feels quite so
bad after a hot bath, sweetie' - and felt a tiny fraction
better. She was still crying, but at least her face was
washed, her wretched shoes had been kicked off, and
Felicity had provided her with a mug of hot chocolate
and a large box of Kleenex. The hot chocolate was fat
free and taste-free, but at least it was warm. Right now,
Diana thought, she would take what she could get.

Darling Felicity. What a trouper she was. Diana smiled
gratefull� at her friend and listened to the rain drumming
on the roof.

'I don't want to rush you, darling,' Felicity said,
kindly. If you took off all the make-up and the smart
dress and towering heels, Diana Foxton looked - well,
beautiful. Unfortunately. But she also looked very soft
and vulnerable. What had happened? Felicity tucked a
straying platinum strand behind her diamond-drop earring
and leant forward, trying not to look too much like
the vulture she Was. 'Tell me whenever you're ready. Or
don't tell me at all! Whatever makes you comfortable.'

'It's Ernie.' Diana looked down and reached for
another wad of Kleenex. She .was bitterly ashamed, but
there was no getting past this, and anyway, Felicity was
an angel. She'd swooped down and rescued Diana, she'd
run a blessed warm bath, she'd fetched slippers and made
up her tiny guest room. Diana could trust her. She was
divorced herself, she'd understand the pain of a cheating
bastard. 'I - I walked in on him.'

'Walked in on him?' Felicity pretended that she didn"t

145


understand, but her whole skin was prickling with
thrilling anticipation.

'Yes. He - he was - having sex.'

'With someone else?' Felicity did a good impression of
somebody shocked. 'Oh, Diana! I thought you must be
wrong about him, at lunch. Who on earth could he prefer
to you?'

'Do you know who?' Diana said painfully. 'You won't
believe it. Mira Chen. It was her. To think, she's been to
dinner with us. And there she was, the little hooker--'

'Oh, no. What a tragedy. What on earth did you say?'
Diana sobbed and blew her nose loudly. I'll tell you, I'll tell you. Fee, could I possibly stay here? Just for a
couple of days? He won't leave the apartment and I can't
face going back there.'

'Of course you can.' Felicity reached forward and
stroked Diana's damp hair. 'Stay with me, dear, and
don't worry about a thing.'

I46


Chapter x 7


Diana woke up before her alarm. She glanced at the
glowing numerals of Felicity's bedside clock and saw that
it was only six fifteen, but she still got up. There was no
way she would be able to sleep now.

Felicity had lit a comforting, cra.ckling little fire in her
wood-burning stove last night, and now, in the dawn
light, it was ashen and cold. The empty bottle of
Chardonn'ay they had shared lay on her eat-in countertop.
Nobody had cleared it away. Diana looked round
Felicity's apartment. Decent, above average for Manhattan,
certainly. But it could not compare to the exquisite
life of servants, interior decor and fine furniture Diana
had carved out for herself with Ernie. Her husband.

Diana groaned. She felt groggy from the alcohol, and
there were small blisters on her feet. Plus, she had no
clothes. Unless she wanted the guys at Green Eggs to see
her in last night's clothes, there was nothing for it. She'd
have to go back home.

She regarded her reflection in Felicity's mirrored
kitchen cabinets. There were dark circles under her pretty
eyes, and stress and alcohol seemed to have aged her ten
years. Panicked, Diana dived for her handbag and
retrieved her Gucci sunglasses. They were tinted pink, so
that you looked at the world through rose-coloured
lenses. Very funny. What was rosy about her life?

Outside, in SoHo, New York was already awake and
bustling. Diana watched a Chinese vendor bicycling
through the streets, intent on buying the freshest stock at


I47

the market stores before his rivals. Manhattan was one
big Darwinian experiment, and up until yesterday, she'd
welcomed the competition. In her particular pond she'd
been one of the biggest fish. Survival of the most stylish.
Which nobody could say she wasn't.

The hired-help mafia would, of course, have her now.
The doormen had seen Mira enter; Ernie hadn't even had
enough respect for her to keep Mira out of their home. It
would take about a day for the news to leak up through
the ranks of Manhattan society, maybe three before
veiled items appeared in the gossip columns. The triumph
of her enemies would be bad; the pity of her friends even
worse. And, of course, word would reach England. Oh
hell.

Diana pressed her neat nails to her throbbing-head.
There was no help for that. The question was, what
would be her most dignified response? Live with Ernie
and pretend it never happened? Out of the question, he
hadn't even fired Mira Chen yet. Stay here? She glanced
back across the neat little oyster-white apartment to
Feli4ity's bedroom. Thank heavens for one good friend,
but she couldn't impose and, besides, how humiliating to
have to share the details every night of her lousy job and
cracking marriage. No, the best thing was to rent a
luxurious, fully furnished place with Ernie's money until
he came to his senses. Diana allowed her anger to start to
build up in her stomach. She would not let him get away
with this. Think of the gorgeous fairy-tale wedding that
darling Daddy had paid for!

The bustle of the early morning was increasing. I don't
want to be seen out like this, Diana thought. She tiptoed
back into her room and dialled her chauffeur's number.
Luckily, Richard was right there and promised he'd be
down to get her in twenty minutes.

She dressed and fixed herself a cup of coffee and tried
to concentrate on more important things. What was she


I48

to have her shitty little job. It meant that she could bide
from Ernie, Consuela and even Felicity. She could make
her calls from the office, and maybe Felicity or Natasha
would know of a suitable place where she could stay.
Then Diana would have Consuela deliver her things, and
hey presto, she could glide elegantly, temporarily, out of
Ernie's life. Until he came to his senses.

She clenched her fists as she stared out into SoHo.
Where was her driver? Quietly, Diana picked up her bag
and tiptoed out of Felicity's place, gently shutting the
heavy door behind her. The corridor in her friend's
building was grey and actually cold, not even heated.
Diana shivered. The sooner she resolved this with Ernie,
the better.' She punched the elevator button; better to wait
in the lobby for Richard, avoid any more questions
Felicity might want to fire at her. It was too much to have
to sit around in dirty clothes. She sighed; Felicity was
kind, but she wanted to know everything. Of course, that
was her way of being supportive, Diana guessed. But she
didn't want to dissect every tiny thing in her marriage.
She wanted to fix it, and go on as they had before.

She sat down on the functional black leather bench in
the lobby and watched the street outside. What would it
take to win he back? Mira's exile, a promise never to
stray again, and a really substantial present. There was
an emerald and diamond necklace with matching earrings
at Cartier's, a beautiful set that glittered like drops
of the sea set round with stars, African emeralds that
were pale green like the shallows of the ocean washing
on to a Greek beach.

Diana jumped into the car when it pulled up, giving
Richard the kind of frozen nod that told him not to ask
any questions. She hadn't worn last night's clothes since
she was a teenager. Richard moved the car smooth|y


49

through the morning traffic and acted as though he didn't
even notice her.

She suddenly had the nasty feeling that he'd done this
before. Probably lots of times. Dropping Ernie off, or
picking Mira up? Or maybe even another girl?

He held the car door open for her as he pulled into the
underground car park. Luckily, all the husbands in the
building had already left for Wall Street and none of the
wives were up yet. Diana summoned the elevator and
managed to tilt up her head and ignore the attendant.
How I'm dressed is my business, she thought resolutely.

She stepped off at her floor and went into the
apartment. Consuela bustled her plump ass over to open
the door and cooed at Diana's exhausted look.

'Meees Foxton, where you been? I was worried-...'

'Staying with a girlfriend downtown. Nothing to
worry about. Is Mr Foxton here?'

The maid shook her head. 'Oh no, he is gone one
hour.'

Diana breathed out with relief. At least there would be
no fiaore embarrassing scenes this morning. 'Consuela, I
am going to visit with a friend of mine for a little while. I
want you to pack up my summer clothes and my makeup
and shoes and call Mrs Felicity Metson.' She grabbed
one of the Mont Blanc pens that Ernie kept piled by the
phone and scribbled the number down for her. 'My
jewels, too.'

'Yes, senora. You will be here to supervise?'

'No.' Diana checked her watch. 'I'm jumping in the
shower, then I have to go to work. If you could bring me
some breakfast up to the bedroom?'

"Si, senora.' Consuela looked as though Diana was in
imminent danger of losing her mind, but she thought the
Anglos were mad anyway, and did not argue.

Diana ran upstairs, flung her dress into the dry
cleaning basket, and gratefully jumped in her shower. As

she scrubbed and rinsed, she ran her fingers across the
embossed gold stars embedded in the metal. She'd niss
this place. Hopefully, she wouldn't be away for long. Just
enough time to crack the whip on her errant husband.

The hanging clock on the wall outside told her it was
seven thirty already. Diana towelled off roughly and
blasted the hair dryer at maximum as she searched
through her wardrobe. OK, there was a neat green Prada
jacket she matched with an on-the-knee Joseph skirt of
the same colour and Ralph Lauren black pumps, plus the
lightest, sheerest Woolford hose. There was really no
time to make up, so she buzzed Richard again and used
nothing but coloured moisturiser'and neutral gloss.

Diana wanted to be at her job early today. Ernie
wouldn't xpect her to show up, nor would Cicero. She'd
be on time, and she'd show them both.

Consuela opened the door and nearly dropped her
tray.

'Meees Foxton! Are you all right?'

Diana had never got ready so fast in the entire time
Consuela had known her. Was she visiting a baby? Was
someone sick?

Diana nodded and swooped down on the mahogany
tray. 'I'm fine, Consuela.' She lifted the crystal flute of
orange juice, downed iy, and then took the croissant, still
in its napkin, and marched out to the lift.

Consuela waited for her to come back, crazy lady.
When she did not, the older woman sighed, plopped
down on the bed, and started to eat Diana's pain au
chocolat. Packing was hungry work. There was no point
in wasting it. And that coffee smelled too good for a mad
Englishwoman to pour away.


Michael looked down at Iris's sleeping form. Her skin
was still mottled from the way he had left her earli6r,

gasping and bucking underneath him. She was responsive,
sure, but then Michael thought all women were
responsive - once they found the right man.

Thank God she had rolled away out of his arms in her
sleep. He couldn't stand to be crowded, but he hadn't
wanted to wake her up and tell her that. Sometimes he
liked the warmth of her body, when she rubbed that
curvy butt up against him and got him hard, and he
would nudge up her leg and take her just there like that.
Iris had nice breasts, too, surgically enhanced, maybe,
but firm and nice. She was skinny, but she refused to eat,
although she sure did love to luck. He remembered the
night before, when she'd booked the restaurant and
turned up in that short little purple number, the fr.inged
dress, and underneath it, nothing but skin, nothing but
her neatly trimmed little bush, already all slick and fired
up for him ...

He glanced over her sleeping form. Her tits stood up
like hard melons when she lay on her back, but he didn't
knock her for that. The girl took care of herself. A good
sign. That dress was slightly cheap, though it had turned
him on ... maybe he could get her some more suitable
stuff to wear for eating out.

He swung his thick legs out of bed and walked over to
his dressing area. Definitely the worst part about having
a girlfriend was that he couldn't bundle her out of the
apartment in the mornings. Iris slept the sleep of the dead
unless his cock was nudging at her. Maybe she was the
perfect woman: she never got in the way.

He bent down and picked up a couple of forty-pound
free weights and did a few sets of curls. The blood and
lactic acid sang through his biceps and rushed around his
skin. He felt the cobwebs lift from his head. Outside,
TriBeCa was barely stirring yet. He thought he could
shower, shave and get into the office for seven t.hirty

today. It was an importantweek for the company. He
wanted to be able to think.

Ernie Foxton was an obnoxious little limey fck,
Michael thought, then grunted and hefted his iron
weights and told himself not to be biased. As long as the
business was good, who cared? Let the Blakely's guy
muck about in his dandified suits and fake tan. He had
provided Michael with an amazing distribution chain,
and professional, cheap printing works. Their sales force
was eager to go with new products, too. Cicero thought
maybe they had the sleekest sales force in the business,
possibly because Ernie had upped the quota and was
firing the men who didn't produce.

Jean Fellows was the Blakely's head of Children's
fiction. Ste was a fat, hairy woman who didn't seem
bothered by the sprouting mole on her chin or the dark
moustache nestling above her upper lip. Gossip in the
publishing world about Jean wasn't too good. Six
secretaries had resigned in eight months. But again, she's
not my problem, Michael thought.

He had a mission for Green Eggs, and B!akely's was
going to help him get to it. Yeah, it was truly aggravating
having to go up to the sixteenth floor every Monday
morning and give an account of his plan, but what the
hell, there was no getting anything for free. Michael was
about to execute his first serious line of books. Seth had
been working overtime on them and had drafted in a
couple of friends, as well. Michael had a line on a guy
with a new font that looked like easy-to-read handwriting,
and an old woman from Quee/s, who specialised in
intricate initial letters that reminded Michael of the ones
he'd seen in medieval manuscripts. He'd investigated
paperweights, covers, photographic processes and he'd
investigated every aspect of producing a series of stories
that would look like nothing kids had seen before - not
unless they'd been born around the turn of the century.


53

He laid down the weights, stretched for a second and
jumped in the shower. Five minutes later he was washed
and shaved. His suit and notes for the bookseller
presentation were lying on the chair. Michael dressed,
and debated whether he should stop for a pot of coffee.
He thought not, on the whole. The warm scent of it
might wake Iris, and he couldn't wait this morning, not
even for the wet sensation of her lips sliding up and down
his cock. Stop that, Michael. He grinned at his reflection
and ran a hand across the newly smooth surface of his
chin. It would be stubbly again by mid-afternoon, but
now he was dapper and ready to go.

He felt the adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. He left
the apartment quietly and walked across the street to the
subway, hardly seeing all the other commuters-as he
shoved his way onto the crowded train.

He could no longer think of these books in the way
that he'd dreamed them up with Seth, crammed in Seth's
tiny walkup studio in Alphabet City, eating pizza and
attempting to ignore the roaches, deciding if Cinderella was" the way to go or whether to choose more out of the
way stories, like the Billy Goats Gruff, getting blasted on
German beer and trying to remember what it was like
being a kid.

'People think kids are stupid, is what it is.' Seth was
cramming pizza into his mouth and gazing lovingly at a
picture of his recently departed boyfriend, which used to
freak Cicero out, but he'd got .used to it. Seth was
unapologetic, and you had to respect that. As long as he
didn't kiss any guys in front of Michael. He didn't take
tolerance that far. Fuck that.

'Yeah. They do. Kids will pretty much perform as well
as you set their expectations.'

'The Lion King.' Seth made a face. 'Can't we do any
better than that? Barney? Is that what it is?'
'Did you hear,' Michael said seriously, taking the time


54

to pronounce his letters because the beer wasn't going to
affect him, dammit, 'about that school down in Alabama?
This new teacher got her classes mixed up, nd
she thought the remedial string was the advanced string.
She ditched all her stuff and started hitting them with
Shakespeare.'

'What happened?'

'They all started making As.'

'See? We give kids the early texts. Smart stories. Actual
adjectives. Multisyllabic words.'

'What are you, the writer? You just draw the pictures.'
'Scary pictures. Dark forests.'

'Looming mountains. Give me some pizza, you greedy
jerk. Monsters. With teeth. Height. Tall castles that look
like castles.'

'Not Mickey's Magic Kingdom.'

'We're'going to make a fortune.' Michael had grinned.
Now he Wasn't thinking about the kids any more.
Maybe it made him a bad person, just another greedy
suit, but today it was all about the sales. Getting the line
out to the booksellers was just the first step. Covers had
to be presented, reviewers courted, press obtained, and
then there was space. What good did it do him if Barnes
& Noble stocked the line if they didn't rack it out front?
Getting the thing in the front of the stores where the
casually shopping mom would buy it - that was vital.

A new line had a shot, it always had a shot. But if the
books didn't make it in the first month, they'd be shoved
aside, replaced with the latest cheap horror story for
teenagers or Sweet Valley High kids soap opera. And his
little company would never get another chance; at least,
not for years.

He had an opportunity here, Michael thought, and it
made his blood pound as he stepped off the" train.
Midtown was still mostly empty. He could get into his
office and practise his presentation. First the Blakely's


55

people needed convincing, then the booksellers and then
the public. Life for him was nothing but meetings. His
presentation today would really determine Green Eggs'
future.

Harry was on reception today. Michael wished him
good morning and asked for his keys, but he told him the
lady already had them. That was a surprise; Susan was
enthusiastic, but he didn't expect her in at this hour.

Michael stepped off the elevator and shoved open the
doors to his offices, and stopped dead in his tracks. The
shapeliest ass he'd ever seen, swathed in tight, demure,
amazingly sexy dark-green cotton, was pointing at him,
bent over from a waspish waist. He breathed in sharply
and felt an unwelcome tightness in his groin. He knew he

should say something, but he was rooted to the spot.
She lifted herself and turned around. 'You're staring at me,' Diana Foxton said.

Chapter I8


Felicity flipped open the note from Diana and read the
few brief, gracious lines. Yes, she had definitely gone. She
was going to check in at the Paramount tonight, and
would find a furnished apartment from there.

Felicity tapped the crisp paper, against her bronzed
skin. Excitement zipped through her veins. Humming a
little tune, to herself, she sauntered into her master
bathroom and started to prepare herself for the day
ahead. �

As Felicity washed her golden hair with. the rich
jasmine-scented conditioner they made up for her specially
at Frederick Fekkai, she found it easy to convince
herself that she was doing Diana a favour. Ernie Foxton
would never change and if Diana was that bothered
about a little fucking, a little standard extracurricular
activity, well - he wasn't the right man for her. You
needed to be open about new things. Diana could stand
to lose a few pounds,, and fit in with the New York
crowd. Felicity stepped out of the shower and blasted her
hair with her sleek professional dryer, mentally rehearsing
her wardrobe and make-up choices for the important
day ahead.

First she'd have to run this entire situation by Natty
and Jodie. It was important to spread the word, to put
the Foxtons' rocky union out there into the realm of
gossip, speculation and nasty items in the press. Ruminatively,
Felicity selected a buttercup-yellow pair of slim
jersey pants with a knitted, off-the-shoulder silken top.


I57

The sensual fabric poured over her like melted butter,
clinging to her thin flame and emphasising her tan. No,
Diana wasn't suited to New York society, Felicity
decided with a wonderful glow of self-righteousness.
Perhaps they did things differently across the pond. Such
a fuss about nothing! It was kinder to help both her and
Ernie see the light.

There was no denying, she thought as she brushed out
her blond hair and finished it with a gleaming spritz,
that Diana had made a success of her first months here.
But how quickly she'd fallen from grace; being foolish
about little, inconsequential Mira Chen, and going to the
wives with the news; as well as busting in on Ernie, and
then - unbelievably - moving out. Felicity stared approvingly
at her fine cheekbones in the mirror as she dusted
blusher across them. Why hadn't Diana simply backed
out of the room, pretended not to have seen it? No harm
done ... She was practically asking for somebody to
interfere. Perhaps that's what she wanted, subconsciously,
Felicity thought. Yes, Dr Modal, Felicity's
therapist, would definitely say so.

Felicity wandered into her eat-in kitchen and set her
Krups machine to grinding her mocha walnut decaff.
She had a small fruit salad, all she would eat, prepared in
the fridge. So important to keep the weight under
control.

Married barely six months! Why, even in America,
how much money would a first wife walk away with?
Surely not that much. Of course, there were outrageously
good divorce lawyers in New York. But both Foxtons
were Brits, even if Ernie did have dual citizenship. Felicity
applied her fire-engine-red lipstick with grim purpose,
lining and blotting like a pro. Hadn't she read someplace
that the English had crazy divorce laws that gave the wife
little more than support? She'd need to investigate.

She poured out her coffee and gazed at her reflection in


58

the long mirrors of her closet. Delightful. She looked
fresh, American, a rich Manhattan lady. The kind for
whom it was just a sacrilege to be divorced. Felicity lad
done her time in the horrible outer reaches of society,
frozen out of every important party unless a spare
woman was needed, sat at the lowest tables at the charity
balls, completely left off certain ladies' dinner lists and,
finally, placed in Siberia at all the important restaurants.

Felicity shuddered. Never again. She had done penance
and learned her lesson, and it seemed as though,
miraculously, the universe was offering her a second
chance. This time, she would do it right.

Once word got out about Diana Foxton's hysterical
behaviour, every unattached twenty-something in town
would kngw that Ernie Foxton was fair game. It was
moving fast that would secure her the prize.

She fet a thrill of gratitude towards Diana. By coming
to her, the silly little English girl had given Felicity a head
start on everybody else, and if her prey got away, it
would not be for any lack of trying.

She dialled up Natasha and Jodie and arranged a
small, intimate lunch at the Four Seasons. They both
accepted right away, which meant they must realise she
had some important gossip to share. Next, she dialled
Ernie's number, but the machine picked up, so she
replaced the receiver. She tried his office, and Marcia told
her that Ernie was in a meeting, but would call her back.
She left her number and then paced about the room,
eagerly awaiting his call.

Felicity Foxton. It had such a ring about it.


'I'm not staring at you.' Cicero recovered his composure.
'I was rather surprised to see you in so early.'

'No need to be.' Diana straightened, and looked at him
with icy hauteur. Michael took in how she was dressed,
with the schoolgirl black flat penny loafers, and some


59

ight, neat little green suit. Her face had half the
cosmetics that were on it yesterday, her hair was swept
back, and he couldn't help thinking she was the most
stunning creature he had ever laid eyes on. 'You said
yesterday I was late. I didn't want that to happen again.'

'I see.' Michael repressed the impulse to scratch his
head. 'That's good. Maybe you can brew me a pot of
coffee.'

'Already done,' Diana said. The words were polite, but the tone was clipped, sarcastic, almost insulting. Her blue
eyes were ice as she looked at him. He guessed she was
saying in no uncertain terms that a girl like her was out
of his league.

Well, he didn't have time for battles. If she wanted to
try to put him down today she was going to need- to do
better than a cold look. Michael had his own problems,
and he didn't have time for Diana's.

'Good. Bring it into my office,' he said, shortly. 'And
find me the files on the new line.'

He walked away from her. Outside Green Eggs, sure,
she'was a big shot and a princess. But in this office she
was the recipient of a charity job. Michael felt his good
mood evaporating already. If Diana were single, he
thought, he would take her out, and crush her to him and
kiss her until she was squirming and ready to beg for his
phone number, and then he wouldn't give it to her. Well,
maybe he'd bang her once or twice. Probably twice. But
that would be it. Girls like Diana were high maintenance,
and that meant trouble. He didn't need to work at a
relationship, Michael thought. He worked hard enough
in business hours.

And anyway, Diana was married to that prick, his
boss.

He reminded himself he wasn't meant to be thinking
about Diana. He was going out with Iris.
Michael flipped on the lights and reached into his desk

tfor his notes. They were all here, thick sheaves of them,
his handwritten scrawl extending over eighteen pages, of
yellow foolscap. Maybe little miss rich girl out there
could type them for him. It gave him something of a kick,
to think of those perfect, glossy nails tapping menially on
a computer with his work. Yeah. If she wanted a job, let
her work for the money.

He lifted the receiver and dialled Seth, who cursed him
out with a string of blue epithets that would have done
credit to a particularly angry sailor.

'You need to wake up. Get your butt out here,'
Michael said firmly. 'I may need back-up, and besides,
what if they need to talk to a creative?'

'Is that what I am? A creative?' There was a pitiful
groan on the other end of the line. 'It's the middle of the
night, and you talk as though I were. an advertising
executive. I'm not a suit, Mike. You're a suit.'

'It's just one day. Get out here, you lazy bastard.'
Michael cupped one hand over the receiver. Diana
Foxton had glided into his office with notes and a
steaming mug of coffee. His stomach growled slightly.
'Put it down on the table, Diana. So what were you
saying?'

Seth continued to protest. Michael didn't know why
other people were just not as committed as he was. Diana
was still hovering on thb edge of his vision, and her waist
and legs were intensely distracting. Just because she'd
covered them up, didn't mean.they weren't distracting.

'Get here by quarter to ten at the latest,' he said,

hanging up on his partner. He eyed Diana.

'You brought my notes?'

She nodded and made a brief, clipped gesture to the
folder she'd laid on his desk in front of him. The huge
sparkler on her left hand caught the light as she waved it.
It had probably cost more than his entire apartment.

Michael bristled. 'Then what are you waiting for? Don't

you have work to do?'

'Oh, I have plenty of work to do.' Her cool English

accent was so confident, so refined. 'But I'm afraid I have

to object to your language.'

Michael blinked. 'Excuse me?'

'Certainly, I will excuse you. This time,' Diana said.
'I don't think I follow you,' Michael said coldly. The
chick had some set of balls. Rebuking him in his own
office, when he ran the damn place. Maybe she thought
being Ernie's wife meant she could throw her weight
around? If so, he would be happy to disillusion her. He
frowned.

'I did not use any language to you.'

She stood her ground, eyeing him, he thought, like he

was some drunk bum who was crashing one of her rich
chick dinners. 'Not to me, no. But in front of me. You
asked me to dress appropriately for the office, Mr Cicero,
and I did. But I would ask you to speak appropriately for
the.office in front of a lady.'

Michael coloured with annoyance. 'I suppose you are

going to sue me for sexual harassment,' he snapped.

She gave a delicate little laugh. A million-dollar laugh.

Maybe more.

'I doubt it. I - we - hardly need the money. And that's

an American thing. I don't sue, I just handle it.'

Oh you do? Fighting talk, for somebody who did one

day's work in her whole life, Michael thought. He
inclined his head. 'Very well, Diana. I stand corrected.
You can go now.'

'Thank you, Mr Cicero,' Diana said quietly, and left

his office, shutting the door gently behind her.

Michael slumped in his chair and drank his coffee and

tried to concentrate on his notes. It was very hard. Damn

that spoilt society brat. Damn her. He looked at his

watch. Hurry up, Susan, he thought, I really need you
here.


'She didn't,' Natty Zuckerman breathed.

'Oh, but she did,' Felicity half whispered, with just the
right note of affection and concern in her voice. Jodie
Goodfriend said nothing, but shook her perfect little
blond bob.

They were seated at one of the best tables in the Four
Seasons. Felicity's hawk-like gaze had already spotted
Barry Diller and David Geffen, the entertainment
moguls, and Cindy Crawford with Randy Gerber. The
'Mrs Zuckerman' and 'Mrs Goodfriend' had proved to
be key. She could never have been sat at the last minute
without them, and, of course, not in a decent section like
this, whre ladies could see and be seen. The discreet
golden rings on the fingers of the older women flashed at
Felicity like laurel wreaths of victory. Mrs Erni Foxton
might not have quite the same punching power, but it
would be a close thing. Give me six months, Felicity
thought, and they'll bump Cindy herself to seat me.

The waiter approached with a little more champagne.
Cristal at this place cost the same as a seat on a plane to
Europe - if you went coach, of course. Felicity nodded
with an imperious air. Her guests were extremely socially
secure, and therefore tley could drink at lunch if they
chose to. Anyway, wasn't champagne supposed to be
virtually calorie free? All the supermodels drank it.
Felicity couldn't afford business class much these days
and, of course, she would never fly coach, but she had
splashed out for the champagne and the meal. She had
known these women for years, and when she was really
Mrs Metson, they had been close. Felicity was desperate
to regain her footing.

The soft music and flattering lighting, the small


63

portions and overdressed plates, soothed Felicity's jangling
nerves like nothing else. This was the life she was
born for. Would Natty and Jodie support a palace coup?
Gently, so gently, she tested the waters.

'I worry about Diana. She took her clothes, and I think
she's actually moving out.'

'Tell me more,' Jodie murmured, pushing her curly
endive lettuce round the fine china plate.

'Well. This must be in complete confidence, of course.
We have Ernie to think of too,' Felicity said, dropping
her voice responsibly. 'But Diana barged into the room
without knocking, and it seems he was found in a ... compromising position.'

Natty Zuckerman put one hand over her mouth and
arched her elegantly plucked brows. 'No! She actually
forced her way in?'

'She saw everything too,' Felicity said, affecting
sorrow. 'She thinks the staff heard them. Very
embarrassing.'

'Very,' Natty agreed, a smidgen too enthusiastically.
'It'll be all round the city by now.'

'You know how people talk,' Jodie agreed. Now she
could blab to all her girlfriends and blame the maids and
Diana's doorman. It was a terrific story. What a fool
Diana Foxton must be. 'And she was so popular, too.
The Post write-up on her last two parties...'

'Yes. "The Queen of New York",' Natty Zuckerman
quoted.

Felicity fought to hide her triumphant grin. She
couldn't stand these two, and they couldn't stand her, but
they were all on the same team. Natasha and Jodie had
been giving elegant little parties for years, but neither of
them had ever captured the columns in the way 'Princess'
Diana had done. They were jealous, and she recognised
at once that they shared her desire to see the English girl
take a tumble.


64

'That's what I'm afraid of. For Diana's sake, and, of
course, for dear Ernie's. I don't think I can forget that
Ernie is a friend too.'

'A good friend,' Jodie nodded.

Natasha speared a piece of her healthy steamed
broccoli and looked Felicity square in the eye.

'If you want my confidential advice, my dear,' she
said, 'you have a definite duty to talk this all through
with Ernie. We can't allow him to be so severely
compromised.'

'Where will Diana be staying? Will she be going
home?' Jodie Goodfriend enquired.

'I think at a hotel,' Felicity pretended not to know,
'and then a short-term furnished apartment.'

'That's a excellent idea. Space to cool down. Perhaps
you could go and have a private talk with Ernie,' Jodie
said. o

Felicity lifted her champagne flute and sipped reflectively,
like the idea had never occurred to her. Natasha
gave her a tiny nod. It was the green light. The wives
would be on her side, not Diana's, and the English girl
would get no warning of what was coming. She almost
felt sorry for Diana. Her party was definitely over.

'I'll do that,' she agreed.

165


Chapter 19


Ernie looked around the packed room and grinned
quietly to himself.

Michael Cicero had the booksellers in the palm of his
hand. Each successive Green Eggs cover was greeted with
warm smiles and nods of approval. They were leaning
forward in their seats, like they could hear the cash
registers ringing already. You could tell when a-buyer
was faking it; this was the real thing. That faggot, Seth
Green, had a good line when he talked about the creative
team of illustrators. The large letters with the complicated
patterns - so much crap, in Ernie's honest opinion,
but he didn't care about his personal taste. The kids
ov4rruled him. Ernie hated kids anyway: they were whiny
little brats without anything interesting about them.
Except, of course, their ability to nag their parents for
books.

The kids' book sector in America was dying fast. Who
read any more, when there was Disney and Buffy? Did
parents take the time to read stories to kids? No. They
stuck them in front of a VCR. If Cicero's Green Eggs
could breathe life into the sector, so much the better.
They needed a Harry Potter.

Besides, the sellers and distributors weren't looking at
Cicero. Ernie's careful PR department had done their
highly paid job, and, to them, Michael Cicero was just a
kid himself, the 'product manager' on the line. Product
managers were very replaceable. To the trade, Ernie
Foxton, Wall Street magician, the bottom-line king, had


i66

come up with this idea. If it flew, he'd get all the credit. If
it tanked, Cicero was there to take the fall.

The presentation finally concluded with huge applause
and a rush towards the sales department. Yes! Ernie's
skinny fist balled under his desk as he accepted congratulations.
Now they had the hard product, the really
enjoyable part of his Green Eggs takeover could begin.
Ernie hadn't forgotten the way Michael Cicero had made
him grovel. He'd been longing for payback. Now his
production people had seen the little wop's goods, which
he'd been so secretive about in that broom cupboard on
the fourth floor, they could duplicate them.

Sell or stiff, either way, Michael .Cicero was out. Ernie glanced out of his windows at the crawiing
traffic on eventh Avenue and the huge billboards of
Broadway. Mira had ridden him well this morning, and
Diana was out of his hair, too. Who gave a fuck about
her little temper tantrum? It was good, he decided, that
she'd caught him. That would lay it on the line for her
without him having to bother. Cicero, Diana, anybody
who annoyed him, from now on was going to be swept
out of the way. Glittering Manhattan loved him. What
did anybody else matter?

He shook hands with the suits and nodded, friendly
like, at Cicero as he bulldozed past him on his way
downstairs. He was polit to Ernie, nothing more. Didn't
Cicero know he held his future in the palm of his hands?
Ernie bristled. He'd teach the cowboy some respect. He
glanced across the room and saw Marcia giving him that
wary look of hers. It was about time he had her replaced.
Transferred, to avoid any kind of a suit. And her
replacement could be a younger woman with less of an
ass, a thin, hard-looking girl like Mira Chen. Not Mira,
though. You had to be wary of the law over here.
Besides, Ernie thought, smirking, it was about time
somebody other than Mira got a crack of the whip - so to


x67

speak. There were a lot of cruel women with stilettos and
a taste for thong panties and money on the island of
Manhattan.

'Give me the call list, Marcia,' he said, smiling warmly
at her, to let her know she wasn't being sacked.

She handed it over deferentially. 'Here, sir. And there
was another call for you just now. A Mrs Felicity
Metson.'

'Felicity.' Ernie smiled. 'Interesting. Get her back for
me, and hold my calls until I've finished talking with her.'

Gossip about Diana? Another warning? Classy tart,
Felicity. Just the kind of girl he needed on his side right

now.

Maybe she'd know what the hell his wife was doing

with herself.

Ernie looked round his outer office. Everybody was

doing their jobs, not looking him in the eye. That was
fine, though. As long as he made money for this firm,
they would be quiet as mice on tranquillisers.


	It's good to be king, he thought.


Diana was sitting at her desk, typing, when the phone
rang. She'd thrown herself into this shabby little job
today. There was nothing else to do, except check on
Consuela and leave messages for her girlfriends. Jodie
and Natty were not at home, nor were Melissa or Robin,
so she'd done the mindless work Susan Katz had given
her. Diana was in a bad mood, and not even attempting
to make conversation with the other bitches in the office.
She got them herbal tea and coffee when they asked for
it, then marched back to the file room or her desk. As she
moved about the office, typing, filing, working, never
wasting a second, they seemed to draw back from her,
like they were scared. Diana reflected they probably hadn't
heard about her and Ernie yet. They probably thought

68

she was cooking up some elaborate scheme to get them

all laid off.

Good. Let them worry. She was busy.

That rude oaf, Michael, had stormed off upstairs with
his troops to do his silly presentation. Diana typed out

daily meeting schedules and conference notes, spell
checked and printed, faxed, photocopied and carried,

until her hands were covered in paper cuts and she had
swollen ankles. Now she was taking his messy handwritten
office rules and vacation schedules, and turning them
into policy documents. It was better than filing, after all.
Diana found that she was taking care with this, amazingly
enough. It was too bad the way that lout Michael
ordered her about, without giving him any ammunition.
She didn't want to let Susan Katz triumph over her more
than she was already doing.

Her phone buzzed and she picked it up.

'Michael Cicero's office.'

'Darling, is that you?' Felicity gave a little laugh, and
Diana twisted in agony on her seat. Oh great. Now
Felicity knew she, Diana Foxton, was nothing more than
a secretary. In fact she was reporting to a secretary.
Diana blushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. 'How nice
to hear you sounding so businesslike.'

'Oh, it's so much fun to work,' Diana managed to say,

'a completely new experience.'

'Yes. Maybe that's what'll turn Ernest around,' Felicity
suggested.

'I really don't care whether it does or not,, Diana lied,
'it's very enjoyable. Something I can "do for myself.'

'Indeed. It's terrific you've got a hobby,' Felicity
purred. 'Anyway, the point is, sweetie, I've been doing
some digging, and I have a marvellous little list of
furnished places I thought you could use.'

Diana was touched. It was good to have people she
could rely on.


x69

'Thanks, Fee,' she said. 'Fax it over.'


For the first week Diana did nothing but check in at the
Pierre and enjoy herself. The suite had a phone, a fax, a
silver bowl full of freshly cut blazing red roses replaced
each morning, and a view of the Park that reminded her
of home. She took sauna baths and massages, manicures
and pedicures, and managed to feel just a touch more
human. All her friends came to visit and offered advice
on the reconciliation, which Diana chose to ignore. To be
quite honest, she thought, it's bliss being away from
Ernie. I'll let him miss me.

The trouble was that the Pierre rang her up at work,

and that turned her so-called colleagues into utter
tyrants. They so hated the idea of anybody else" having
any fun. They seemed to violently object to the fact that
her chauffeur dropped her at the office and that she went
home to her gilded oasis each night. Besides which, Diana
told herself, guiltily, as she sipped her fresh almond
coffee and gazed out from her balcony over the warm
c61ours in the Park, swathed in her thick white robe, the
bill was getting - possibly - perhaps - just a smidgen too
rich.

She handed in her work, bought herself a complete

new wardrobe for the office on Ernie's card, and
reluctantly went apartment hunting.

'But it's all so shabby,' she complained to Felicity. 'No
views, no decor ...'

'It's not that bad, sweetie,' Felicity reminded her, 'you

need to show Ernie how well you can make do on your

own. And it's only temporary.'

They were in a top-floor apartment near the Flatiron, a
one-bedroom snip at three thousand dollars a month. It
had red-brick walls, and a plain white bathroom and oak
closets.

'It reminds me of a Holiday Inn.' Diana sniffed.


I7O

Felicity looked across at Diana and allowed her
growing dislike to have a free rein. Nobody had forced
the spoilt little prima donna into this wretched, serviceable
hovel, suitable for, say, a middle-management wife.
Nobody had forced her to leave Ernie's opulent apartment
and move here, where there wasn't even a walk-in
closet. Diana had made her plain, unimpressive queen
size bed and now she would have to lie in it.

'Well, I'm sure that by now dear Ernie has been calling
and begging for a reconciliation. Maybe you should just
go home,' Felicity purred.

She sat down delicately on the bed and felt the
mattress. It was lumpy. No more interior designers for
Diana Foxton. From now on it was Bed, Bath and
Beyond, and lucky to be able to afford that. Felicity knew
for a fact .that their usual crowd had been cutting Diana
off. Dinners had turned into lunches, and lunches into
quick drinks after work. Well, as she knew, nobody liked
to be associated with the stigma of impending divorce. It
really was very ugly. And somehow the wives always felt
it would be catching, like a nasty bout of Spanish flu.

Men had the power, in the end. Men could always get
rid of you and replace you. A woman of a certain age had
no friends but her divorce lawyer and her pre-nup. Who
else was going to marry her, once she was past thirty
five? There were twenty-eight-year-olds around every
unwary corner. So, the wives really couldn't stand a girl
who dragged divorce back on t.o their husband's radar
screens. A nice settled life was to be.cultivated.

Diana was infected and she was being put into
quarantine.

Felicity took careful note as a frown creased Diana's
perfect white brow. Of course Ernie hadn't been calling.
He'd spent the week closeted with the divorce lawyers
she had put him on to.


7

'He just needs a little more time.' Diana sighed. 'Well,
it's ugly and squat, but at least it's clean. I suppose I can
put up with it for now. Until he comes to his senses.'

'Absolutely.' Felicity soothed her. She patted her
blond hair and told herself that this would make dining
out fodder for years. 'I'll call the Pierre and tell them to
send your cases over.'

'But we have to sign the lease, and all that stuff,' Diana
said, a bit perplexed.

Felicity waved her bony hand lightly in the air.
'Darling! I already spoke to the leasing agents and you're
pre-approved. All you do is write them a cheque for six
grand, and you can move in tonight. They even have the
phone and electricity already turned on.'

Diana opened her mouth, then shut it again. She didn't
know what to say. Felicity had been such a bedrock, but
wasn't she moving just a little fast? Surely I can't
complain that this is too convenient, Diana thought. I
guess she's just a very efficient girl.

'Thanks, Fee. What would I do without you?' She gave
hr a hug. 'Let me call you tomorrow and we'll have that
long brunch on Sunday.'

'Sweetie, I can't wait.' Felicity pressed her sleeve in a
very light, detached manner. 'What a bore that I have to
run now. We could have organised a little apartment
christening with the girls.'

Diana threw up her hands. 'Oh, heavens, no. I think
I'd die if any of them saw me like this. Thank the Lord
that it's not permanent.'

'Of course it isn't,' said Felicity, gliding out of her door
with a smile and a little wave.

Diana sat on her standard-issue armchair, covered in
boring beige cotton, and tried to suppress the waves of
misgiving washing over her. She felt a pang of loneliness
when Fee disappeared, and it seemed she had nobody else
to call. Why hadn't Jodie Goodfriend rung her back more

17.2.


than twice? It was too bad having to leave a lot of
messages. Really, people weren't very prompt. Mentally
she crossed several people off her next dinner-party list.
Even Natty had only come to drink with her twice, and
then for a mere two glasses of white wine at the Rainbow
Room. Hardly worth coming out for. Gosh, Diana
thought miserably, I'm at the point where I'm ready to
ask Susan Katz if she'd like to go out for tea after work.
Not that I even feel like it after eight hours of wretched
grunt work. What a failure her job had been. If it was
intended to bring Ernie crawling back to her, it hadn't
exactly produced results. She'd already have quit if it
hadn't been for the sneers of Cicero. and her husband.

The phone rang, and Diana jumped half out of her
skin. Who cpuld it be? She hadn't given the number out
to a soul. She didn't even know the number yet.

"Mrs Foxton? Madam, it's Carlos at the Pierre. I
wanted to check the bellhop had the correct address for

your cases.'

He read it off in a perfunctory way.

'Yes.' Diana managed to lift her tone, to show how
unembarrassed she was by this address. 'It's temporary.'

'I'm sure, ma'am,' Carlos agreed, with the blandness of
the terminally uninterested.

Diana's head swam. Hell. Now she was reduced to
trying to justify herself to a concierge.

'Just bring them right over,' she told him, and hung up.
To distract herself, Diana went downstairs and wrote
the front office a cheque. They-gave her her keys, her
phone number, and her gym pass. Miybe she'd go for a
swim in the building's tiny pool once her clothes arrived.

It was important not to be conquered by this. And I won't call Ernie, Diana insisted to herself. I don't care
how long it takes him. Let him do the crawling back.


Ernie was showing Sir Angus Carter out just as Felicity'


73

rrived at his apartment. He made the introduction, and
watched her venal little eyes light up at the title. Cool as
a cucumber she was, though. Nothing like Diana. At
dinner last night she'd said she thought most marriages
benefited from a little piece on the side. Discretion was
what counted. Damn, how he agreed with her.

All this week, Ernie had had to endure the thinly veiled
references in the Post and News, the snaps of his wife
leaving the Pierre in those dark glasses, wrapped up like
Jackie F"" ing O. They'd even run a shot of Mira Chen,
a half-nude still from some porno she'd apparently done
back in college. Nice, really. He'd had a stab of regret,
staring down at those aggressive little tits peeking out of
the bondage halter, that he'd had to get the personnel
department to terminate her for lying about her criminal
record. She'd tried to order him to stop, but Ernie had
just laughed at her.

'I don't think so, darlin'. Not this time.' Mira had
begged and blubbed, and he knew he'd never be able to
crawl to her boots again. 'Now be a good girl, and don't
rfiake it hard on yourself. I promise you, one word about
me to the press and I'll have the cops up your ass like a
twelve-inch dildo.'

'How can you,' Mira whimpered.

'Very easily.' His power gave him a little thrill. Not
sex, but better. There are a hundred replacements for the
Miras of this world, but only one of me. 'Maybe I'll send
you a little something, but that's it. Don't even fucking think of trying blackmail, because I'll go right to the
police. Remember, my whole office already saw what
you got.'

'Ernie, I thought we had something good,' she wailed.
'So did I,' he said, and hung up.

He'd waited three days. When she didn't call, he sent
her a pair of diamond earrings, anonymously. She could
flog them before she got herself a new boyfriend. He felt


x74

ano guilt. Love was a romantic illusion for suckers. Had
that little whore thought she could actually be his wife,?
His wife wouldn't be the type who sucked cock in
another woman's bedroom. Undemanding, presentable
and savvy, that was what he wanted in a wife. He
glanced across at Felicity. Maybe she could fill Diana's
vacancy. She seemed to know the score.


"

175


Chapter zo t


Felix Custer entered his boss's office with the warm grin
of a man who is about to impart some excellent news. He
was fifty, and at first he'd baulked at the idea of working
for someone nearly half his age. But he'd been laid off by
HarperCollins, and most employers in America were so
addicted to youth that his age and experience had
actually handicapped him. He'd taken what he could get.
Cicero was bullheaded, blinkered and sharp as a tack.
Now the figures were in, Felix was going to look like a
genius. The profits, the reorders, the low overhead from
these unbelievably basic offices - the company had the
best bottom line he'd seen in years.

This was his first report, and it was going to be a show
stopper.

Custer smiled at his colleagues. It was strange to be on
a winning team of people who actually liked each other.
The street below them seemed busy and vital, the huge
spinning neon news tickers wrapped round the skyscrapers
impressive, futuristic. Before midtown had just
stressed him out. He was starting to enjoy it again, like a
kid.

Michael Cicero was so determined, it rubbed off on
everybody. Even Helen, Felix's flighty assistant, had
started to spend less time playing solitaire and more
updating his Rolodex. Jake Harold, the commissioning
editor, and Rachel Lilly, who coordinated their distribution,
also looked smug. No wonder. These numbers


I76

would make anybody look smug. Felix's wife had started
boasting about his work again.

Everybody was so damn happy in this office, it was
like you expected a blonde chick to bust in and start
singing about the hills being alive with the sound of
music.

There was a rap on the door.

'Come in,' Felix said genially.

It swung open and Diana Foxton marched in. Custer's
good mood evaporated around the edges. She was an
amazingly pretty girl, but nobody here noticed that. It
was like looking at a lotus flower encased in a block of
ice. Diana did her job well, if you. could call it a job.
Nobody spoke to her, because she was rich and cold. She
had a 'Do, Not Approach' sign emblazoned on her
forehead in neon letters. Felix disliked her as much as
anybody eise in this place, and passed on financial filing
to her. She always took it without complaint, briskly and
efficiently, and said nothing. It spooked folks, how silent
she was. Diana ate lunch at her desk and went home on
the dot of 6 p.m.

He couldn't deny she was good, though, she had a way
with words. But when Felix took the time to congratulate
her, he'd had nothing but a 'Thank you, Mr Custer,' in a
tone that would have made an Eskimo freeze up.

'Susan called in sick, so Mr Cicero asked me to take
the notes on this meeting,' Diana said.

'Have a seat,' Felix .said, coolly. 'Where is Michael?'
'Just taking a call from Ernest Foxton,' she replied,
blue eyes looking up at him like she had nothing
whatsoever to do with that person. It irritated Felix. She
was probably spying on Green Eggs for her husband, and
she made out like she'd never even heard of him. 'He'll be
right out.'

Diana crossed her legs. They were beautiful pins,
strong-calved, slim-ankled, encased in very expensive77


looking hose ... he could tell that by the way they
shimmered ... and they rode all the way up from her
crocodile court shoes to her neat, eggshell-blue skirt. She
had teamed this with a silky, milky shirt and a matching
jacket, as well as a discreet string of pearls round the
creamy hollow of her throat. She had a tiny dusting of
freckles round her nose, and a full, slightly swollen
mouth. Felix decided, clinically, that she was one of the
most lovely women he'd ever seen. A trophy wife for
Foxton. Surely the rumours of impending divorce could
not be true. Where would Ernie get a better-looking arm
ornament than that one?

The door swung open again and Michael Cicero strode

in. Felix drew himself up. There was something about
Michael that made you sit up straight and focus.-He had
the air of a battlefield commander about him. Whenever
thoughts of his age crept back to Custer, Cicero's
bulldozing manner made him forget about them again.
There was simply no time to worry about his age.
Michael kept the whole team too busy for that.

"'I hear good things,' Michael said. No preamble, of
course. He wasn't good on the niceties. 'I'll get to your
reports individually. But give me a summary first. What's
the picture?'

'I'll go first,' Rachel said, with a sidelong nasty glance

at Diana. The women here had taken against her worse
than the men. Rachel was a pretty girl, too, mid-thirties
with neat blond hair, but she .was nothing to look at.
Maybe Diana didn't understand just how off-putting that
whole ice-queen thing was to men. 'Our sellers are
fighting them off in the Mom and Pop stores, and Barnes
& Noble, B. Dalton and Waldenbooks have all racked us
out by the sales register. We're just trying tO ensure even
distribution round the country - to be fair. I've been
taking a lot of international calls, but we'll need a much
bigger print run to cope with that demand.'


178

'The press loves us,' Jacob Harold said, jumping in,
not to be outdone. 'I even got a slot on Good Morning
America for Ernie Foxton.'

Michael nodded. 'Excellent, but why wasn't that given
to me? It's our line.'

A shadow of confusion passed over Jake's face. 'You
know I work the PR side with the Blakely's people,
Michael. They told me you had turned it down.'

Cicero paused. 'Maybe I did.' His large frame shifted
on the chair, like he was thinking hard about something.
He shook himself slightly and turned to Felix. 'How are
we looking, chief?'

'Pretty good.' Custer heard his voice light up with
pleasure. 'You and I decided to ke6p the executive staff
compact and multifunctional, and to cut down drastically
on our proected overhead budget--'

'You mean we only hired a handful of people and we
chose simple offices,' Michael said.

'Exactly. Combine that with the success of the first
printing of the series, and what Jacob tells me about lack
of returns, and I'd say the first quarterly profit margin
is--'

Felix smiled warmly and gave out the figure.
'Wow,' Rachel said, rather endearingly.
Michael blinked. 'Are you sure?'

'I checked the figures several times. They depend on
certain variables--'

'You're sure, right?'

'Yes,' Felix said, grinning. 'I'm sure.'

'Am I right in saying', Jake asked, loosening his collar,
'that that level of profitability means We will receive that
bonus promised in the contract?'

'That's correct. Two hundred and fifty thousand
apiece,' Felix said, almost licking his lips.

'Before you start drooling, let's go through the
reports,' Michael said, dryly. 'We still have work to do.'

Sixteen floors above him, in his glass and chrome palatial
offices, Ernie Foxton was also discussing their figures.

'Beautiful.' Jean Fellows was turning the Green Eggs Cinderella over in her hands, but she wasn't talking
about the thick, glossy paper or the delicate watercolour
pictures. Her eyes were on the sales figures projected onto
the wall in front of them by Peter Davits. 'I never saw
sales like it in children's fiction. It's because of the
illustrators.'

'And you got the names and addresses?' Ernie Foxton
demanded.

Fellows turned her fleshy neck towards the president of
the company. 'Yes, just as you said, Mr Foxton. I took
the names and addresses and signed them all to new
individual contracts with Blakely's. Exclusive contracts,
with a no-compete clause. For one year.'

Ernie rubbed his hands. 'Terrific. That'll shut the little
fuckers up.'

He beamed at his own deviousness. No-compete
clauses were normally put in the employment contracts of
filni presidents and engineers, but why not use them for
scribblers and paint splashers, too? It meant that if they
refused to work for Blakely's, they couldn't draw for
anybody else - for example, a new firm that Cicero might
be tempted to set up, once he figured out what was
happening to him. The only job they would have would
be to sling hash in some fast-food joint. Ernie was
learning about the so-called artistic temperament. Seth
Green didn't understand what he'd signed, but that was
his problem. He would draw for Blakely's, or he
wouldn't draw at all. To a guy like Seth, revolting little
faggot, that'd be unbearable. Same for all the other kids
Cicero had recruited.

'You spoke to the booksellers? Amazon and the other
online people?'
'Of course,' Janet Jensen said, primly. 'They don't care

i8o

about our office politics. They just want to know that the
line will continue. They all saw you on TV, Mr Foxtqn.
They give you the credit.'

'And so they should,' Ernie said shamelessly. 'It's a
Blakely's line, and I run Blakely's.'
'Very well, too,' Janet said, giving him an oily smile.
Ernie didn't mind. What the fuck? It was true.

Tonight he would call Jane Grenouille at her firm and
prep her on how to deliver the bad news. He had such a
nice surprise planned. Of course, Diana would be getting
it in the rear twice, which was more than she'd ever
gotten from him. Frigid bitch. Felicity was right. He was
well shot of her.

Ernie's thoughts drifted away from victory to the new
maid Felicity had hired to tend to his personal stuff. She
was neat, compact and Eurasian, with milky skin and
slanted #es. She wore stiletto heels four inches high
around his apartment and tight little black dresses over
her boyish body. He loved thinking about the insults
which would pour out of her cruel little mouth, given half
a chance. Felicity made herself scarce three nights out of
five. She did what she was told, except in the bedroom
where she was demanding and raked his skin with her
nails. He could get it up for her, no problem. She ate next
to nothing, and she sucked him with such enthusiasm and
leapt to his touch which .she directed. It was a pleasure to
eat out her neatly trimmed little pussy. Sometimes she
even braided the small strip of pussy hair she had left and
affixed little bows to it. In public, of course, you'd never
know. Last night he'd taken her out for the first time, and
he'd enjoyed the stares of the crowd.

Felicity reminded him that the whole of New York
would be watching to see how he handled Diana. The
way they watch my business, Ernie thought. But that's
OK. Let them watch, I'm going to show them how it's
done.


Idx

'Great meeting, everybody.' His tone told them to get
the luck out. He buzzed Emma, Marcia's replacement.
'Emma, get me Sir Angus Carter on the phone. Right
now.'


Michael did something he never did, and gave everybody
the rest of the day off. Helen and Kara whooped,
gathered up their bags, and were out of there in under
two minutes. His executives were more restrained but,
still, they didn't exactly protest. It was 78 degrees and
sunny outside, and they could get back to their homes
before the rush hour, and eat watermelon on their sun
decks, and think about the sweet two hundred and fifty K
they'd get for riding along with him.

He pretty much wanted out, too, today. He lox;ed his
job, but it wasn't every day you found out you were
about to become an instant millionaire. His dad had been
in tears when he rang him and told him. Right now,
Michael reflected, he wanted head from Iris, a bottle of
chiled Taittinger ros champagne, and ... he'd figure
out the rest later.

He was just finishing up with Diana Foxton. He
resisted telling her to thank Ernie for him. He'd earned this golden-handshake bonus, he thought. They were
making money because Blakely's was making even more
money. That was what he had to bear in mind.

Diana was handing him the last set of letters that
needed his signature. She seemed remarkably unexcited
about today's news, but then again, why should she care?
It wasn't like one pre-tax million dollars would rock her
world, exactly.

'Nearly done here.' He nodded at her. 'I expect Susan
will be back tomorrow. You did a good job today,
though. Now you can take the rest of the day off to go
shopping.'

She looked at him coldly. 'How do you know what I'm

going to do with my day?'

'I just assumed---'

Diana gave a clipped little laugh. 'Of course. Doesn't
everybody? But I'd rather you didn't.'

Cicero ignored the snub. 'What will you use your time
for, then?'

Diana blinked. Was somebody actually asking her a
personal question? Everybody in this bloody place had
been ignoring her for weeks, much like her supposed
girlfriends who'd been blanking her en masse. Diana was
too savvy a social operator to ignore the signs any more.
Obviously, it had to do with the separation. Why,. she
couldn't imagine. Ernie was a liability socially. She had
shown thee New York witches how the game was
played, and now the jealous bitches were taking this
opporturrity to snub her.

'Museums, actually.' She'd been planning on going
shopping, sure, but why let Cicero think he had her all
figured out? A wave of bitterness washed over her. She
smoothed the pale-blue silk around her knees. Why the
hell didn't Ernie call her? He must be going crazy without
her. Some nights it took all she had to stop herself
picking up the phone.

'Really? There's a nice exhibition at the Met, I heard.'
'There are several,' Diana snapped at him. Arrogant
ierk. She so objected to being thought a moron. She
wasn't a little bimbo like Helen or Kara. 'I'm planning on
taking in the St Francis of Assisi exhibition. They have
some very important medieval work on loan from Italy
since the earthquakes destroyed the church there.'

Michael arched one of his thick brows. His chest was
very broad as he leant over her, scribbling his signature
on the letters. Despite herself, Diana felt a sudden,
surprising shock of desire. It had been so long since a
man had touched her. Ah, but remember, honey, she told


x83

herself, you get all worked up, then he takes you to bed,

and it's nothing but frustration.

Of course, that had been with Ernie. Diana thought

about the way all the businesswomen who visited this
office flirted so shamelessly with Michael. It was probably
just their perception of his power.

Susan Katz, that kitty cat, definitely wanted him.
Definitely. Diana was savagely glad that he had a
woman. She couldn't stand Susan and her bullying ways.

It was a mystery why all these girls would chase a man

like Michael, a man without money or position.

Diana breathed in the scent of his body. No cologne,
nothing but a very faint, mannish musk. She held herself
in, to stop herself squirming. It would be insufferable for
this macho pig to get any idea she thought twice-about
him.

He gave her a sidelong glance out of those dark, thick

lashed eyes.

'I didn't know you knew anything about art,' Cicero

said.

'iDh, I don't. But I know what I like.'

Michael grinned. Diana Foxton, the art critic. On a

whim, he pulled out two sketches from his desk drawer:

mock covers for the second wave of Green Eggs books.

'What do you think of these two?'

Diana tilted her head, and plain gold stud earrings
caught the light. Michael wondered idly what it would be
like to take his thumb and stroke it along the soft ridge
on the side of her neck.

'This is much better.' She pointed to the left-hand
drawing, one of Seth's. 'It's realistic. The other elephant
looks like a stuffed toy.'

'Interesting. What about this and this?'

He put down two more pictures. Diana leant forward

and pointed to the right one. 'This one uses colour more
subtly. I prefer the line detail.'


T84

Cicero was surprised. That was just what he thought.
He pulled out his book of thumbnail sketches. 'Which of
these would you use to cover the Seven Little Tailor?'

Diana sat down, unconsciously pushing him out of the
way. She had forgotten how much she disliked her boss
and was lost in the pictures, blocking out everything else.
Michael bent over her. He could see the tops of her
breasts, just subtly revealed through the open neck of her
silk blouse. Instantly, his cock stiffened.

It's the headiness of the day, he told himself. I need Iris.
I need to get laid.

'This one.' She flipped the page, and showed him a
small image, black-and-white pencil only. He'd never
noticed that one before. Sometimes you could go crazy
looking at ,hundreds of different cover ideas. 'If it was
coloured, maybe a watercolour. Look at the lines, the
detailing:It almost leaps out at you.'

Cicero examined the picture closer, and was shocked.
It was perfect. Exactly right for his book. He'd missed it
because it wasn't a finished image, it was black-and
white.

It was better than the one he'd chosen. Better than the
ones Jacob and Seth had chosen, and she'd picked it out,
right away.

'You know, I think you might be right,' he said,
slowly.

'Of course I'm right.' God, how cold she was. 'It's the
obvious choice.'

'Come in earlier tomorrow,' Michael said. 'I may have
some more work for you.'

Diana's back tensed up. He grinned as he saw the
aggravation writ large on her pretty face. He fantasised
briefly about sliding that skirt up over the curves of her
butt, bending her forwards over his desk, and gently
palming her until she was begging him to stick it in her.


85

'I don't think I can be asked to handle anything more,'

Diana said. 'I work hard enough as it is.'

Cicero handed her the letters and gave her an amazingly
annoying wink. 'Yeah, well, I don't think so. Be in
tomorrow at eight.'


186

Chapter


'As far as I can see, Mrs Metson is correct.'

Ernie smiled at Sir Angus Carter. He had that plummy
aristocratic English voice that Ernie, the barrow-boy,
always detested. Fucking snobs. Diana was from that
same snob-ridden class. But he couldn't fault the words
that were coming out of Sir Angus's mouth, even if the
sound of th,em was grating.

Sir Angus shuffled his papers. 'Mrs Foxton has no case
whatever-in the United Kingdom. She has only been
married for seven months, one of which was spent
outside the marital home by her decision. She left without
word and made no attempt to contact you, Mr Foxton.
Irreconcilable differences ... whatever you would like.
No judge in the United Kingdom would, in my opinion,
award her a penny.'

'She has recently taken a job, too,' Felicity chimed in.
Her arm snaked through Ernie's; her blood-red nails
rested on his sleeve. She wore a pair of thin, arching high
heels and a tight pink dress.

'Indeed.' Sir Angus pushed thin wire-rimmed spectacles
up the bridge of his aquiline nose. 'Which means she will
find it hard to claim that Mr Foxton was intending to
support her.'

'I've taken a few preliminary steps myself,' Ernie said.
'I've put all her stuff together in boxes, and I transferred
all but ten thousand dollars from the joint account.
Didn't want to close it. Thought we'd be subtle.'

Subtle, Sir Angus thought. Subtle? This moneyed oik in


87

front of him was about as subtle as a neon orange ball
gown. If Diana Foxton could not be commended on her
pre-marital fiscal arrangements, she could be roundly
condemned on her taste in men. She would lose millions
in this divorce. Personally, he thought it would be a small
price to pay to rid oneself of Mr Ernest Foxton.

'Hmm. I think that is wise. Mrs Foxton has only one
power in this situation. She can contest, and delay, the
divorce.'

The American she-hawk with the talons paled. 'For

how long?'

'For five years,' Sir Angus said gravely.

'Unacceptable.' Felicity jumped to her feet. 'There has

to be something we can do.'

'There is. You can make her an offer. Any lawyer she
consults will tell her of her financial position.'

'What about immigration? If she's not Ernie's wife, she
doesn't have the right to stay here, does she?'

'Immigration is not my field, madam. I suppose it
m!ght be another thing you could threaten her with.'

Ernie rose, feeling magnanimous. 'Draw up an offer,
Angus--'

The lawyer stiffened. He'd worked hard for that
knighthood.

'- and tell her that I'll give her two fifty, American, if

she signs the papers, and if she delays over a year,
absolutely nothing.' Ernie ignored the pallor of Felicity,
beside him. 'Tell her I can wait. her out. We all can.'


As annoying as Michael Cicero was, Diana felt it was her
duty to pop down to the Metropolitan and view the
exhibition in case he gave her some snotty test tomorrow
morning, and she actually enjoyed it. The colour and
richness of the nine-hundred-year-old paintings still had
the power to amaze and delight. She was moved to go
down to St Patrick's and look at the Catholic cathedral. It


i88

was very soothing: the candles glowing, the people
kneeling at their devotions, or standing head bowed in
front of fine carved statues of the saints. She felt her soul
calmed to the extent that she left, walked to Barnes &
Noble on Fifth and bought a novel instead of diving into
Saks for some retail, therapy. It was ironic, really: the
Temple of God next to the Temple of Mammon.

Diana had a sudden desire to be on her own, coupled
with a ravenous hunger. She dived into a Friday's which
was right next door. It was ideal; absolutely nobody she
knew would be seen dead in here. She ordered a greasy
cheeseburger and fries, and ate it with a large chocolate
milkshake while she read her trashy, novel. In fact, for a
couple of hours she was able to forget Cicero's demands,
Ernie's silence, and her friends' treachery. She pulled her
hair out of 'its snug chignon, and sat reading and people
watchings- savouring each crispy peppered fry and sip of
creamy chocolate.

She took a cab home, and determined to wash her hair,
dress, and go out. Maybe she'd call Felicity, the only one
who was still talking to her. This was meant to be the city
that never slept. There had to be a million fun things for a
young woman with money to do.

Almost as soon as she walked through the door, the
phone rang. Diana half jumped out of her skin; the phone
never rang in her apartment these days. She had gone
from the queen of the city to a Trappist monk in one fell
swoop. She picked it up, her heart racing. Maybe, at last,
Ernie had seen the light.
'Hello?' a soft voice said. 'Diana?'

She felt an intense stab of disappointment. It wasn't
her husband, it wasn't even Natasha or Jodie. It was only
Claire Bryant.

'Hi, Claire,' she replied.

'Diana, where have you been?' Her friend sounded
cross, which was unlike her. 'When you go to ground,


I89

you really go to ground. I've spent weeks trying to find
you. In the end I had to ring Felicity Metson, and pry it
out of her.'

Diana felt slightly guilty. Why hadn't she called Claire?
It was true that Claire had made her feel foolish for
thinking of work as the ultimate four-letter word, but
Claire had always been there for her, when they talked.
Her other so-called friends had bailed out when her
husband did, except Felicity, of course. But Claire had
actually made the effort to find her.

'To be honest, I wanted to be on my own for a little
while. Ernie and I are having some ... slight troubles.'

'Slight troubles? I heard it was worse than that.' Claire
paused. 'Look, can I give you some totally unwanted
advice?'

Diana sat down on her bed. 'Go ahead.'

'You have to see a lawyer and you have to go home. If
he's cheating, who knows what the girlfriend is trying to
get out of him? Why should you be living in a cramped
one-bedroom apartment when you are the wife? Go and
see' him, don't stand on your pride. And get a good

lawyer, just in case.'

A lawyer!

'I'm sure it won't come to that,' Diana protested.
'Ernie just needs to see he can't treat me this way. When
he asks me home, I'll come.'

'I hope it won't, but you can't leave it all up to him.
Look, take this number down. These are my lawyers, and
they're very good.'

'But I thought everything was great between you and
Josh.'

'It is, but I was in the Girl Scouts. Be prepared, you
know. And keep in touch. I'm here for you.'

Diana hung up and was brushing her hair, thoughtfully,
up to its normal state of glossy suppleness when the
bell rang.

She opened the door.

'Ms Diana Foxton?' Steve Santuro asked.

He blinked once or twice. Steve served papers all dy
long - divorce papers, court summonses, notices telling
people they were being sued. America was the litigation
capital of the world, and Manhattan was the litigation
capital of America. Steve made a great living, so he put
up with the oaths and curses, the drunken husbands
getting nailed for child support, the fat wives getting the
elbow. But he'd never served papers on a chick like this.

She was wearing a simple pink cotton dress with little
puffy peasant sleeves, and a scoop-neck that revealed
high, lovely collarbones and golden skin. She had a thick
gold bangle round one wrist, high slides in her hair, 16ng
legs, and c,urves that would make a blind man see.
Goddamn, Santuro thought. Her hair was blond and
shiny and.it looked like it came straight out of a shampoo
ad. Any second he expected her to toss it from side to side
for the cameras. Her breasts in that thing! Steve felt
himself bead with a light sweat. They were soft and
fighting to get out of that little blouse. They even looked
natural. What woman these days actually stuck with her
own tits?

'Mrs Ernest Foxton,' the vision corrected him.
Ernest Foxton was a damn fool, whoever he was, Steve
thought. Perhaps he was. gay. Letting go of a peach like
this? What a sexy accent, too. He loved the way those
Brit chicks spoke.

'Uh. Yeah. Mrs Foxton, right.' Steve blushed and
wanted to get out of there. 'I, like, have a delivery for
you. Could you sign?'

'Of course,' she said. She smiled with bright white
teeth and carefully wrote her name on his board. 'What is
it? Flowers?'

'No ma'am. I'm afraid not.' Steve went the colour of a
ripe tomato. 'It's some legal stuff.'

He thrust the papers forwards awkwardly.

Diana didn't understand. She took the papers and
flipped them over. She read the lettering on top. Carter &
Carter, Solicitors, Grays' Inn, London. What the hell was
this?

'What is this about?' she demanded imperiously.

The spotty little delivery boy cringed and mumbled
something about it all being in there.

'Have a good evening, ma'am,' he said, and bolted.


The cab plunged and weaved through the New York
traffic like a swallow, ducking in and out of lanes,
running lights, blasting the horn. Diana sat in the back,
oblivious to the noise and the crowd of people. She was
furious to the point where she could see nothing but her
white-hot anger. Who the hell did Ernie think he was,
exactly? Divorce? Divorce her, after seven months? As if
she had done something wrong, when he was the one
fucking that little hooker in his office in front of
everybody. She had been the perfect wife and this was
how he repaid her. She was Diana Foxton, and she was
not the kind of girl you could use up and throw away like
a rag doll!

The joint account had nearly a million dollars in it.
First thing tomorrow, she would go straight to Tiffany's
and buy herself some serious jewellery. It was the least
Ernie could do. All this time she had been waiting for his
apology, to put this unpleasantness behind her, and
instead, he'd been doing - this!

He had the gall to offer her a lousy quarter of a million
dollars? He was worth ten times that much! He sat in the
apartment Diana had selected, in the rooms Diana had
designed, on the couch Diana had dug out at great
expense and effort, and he offered her peanuts for a
quickie divorce?


92

I'll show him, she thought curling her small fist. I'll
show him what he can expect from a woman like me.

The cab screeched to a halt outside her apartment
building. What a blessed relief it was to be pulling up to
home, to a decent address! Her so-called friends had
never been afraid to visit her here. When she'd finished
with Ernie, she'd start with them. Diana had visions of
the wonderful parties she would throw for a completely new set, from which Natasha and Jodie and that bunch
of hags would most definitely be excluded.

She threw a twenty down on the seat in front and told
the psychotic cabby to keep the change. He didn't argue;
Americans never thought there was such a thing as too
much money. The cab disappeared in a screech of rubber,
and Diana strode into the lobby, ignoring the deferential
crawling of the doorman and receptionist, and rode the
elevator all the way up to their penthouse. The attendant
opened his mouth a couple of times, but closed it again
after she shot him a look. Good. She really couldn't be
bothered with the opinions of the little people right now.

The doors hissed open and Diana marched out into her
stone-floored lobby. There was the sound of low, murmuring
voices. Ernie obviously had guests. Well, too
damn bad. If ever there was an excuse for a scene, this
was it.

She brushed aside the.greetings of Consuela and Paula
and marched into the drawing room.

Ernie was sitting there, with his arm draped over
Felicity Metson.

He looked up.

'What are you doing in my apartment?' he said.


Michael moved a large paw through the air, grabbing at
Iris. Her breasts were bouncing in that way he loved.
Wedged deep inside her, he thrust to the rhythm of his
blood. He was muscular and covered with sweat, the way


x93

he always got when he fucked. Her ass was resting up
against his knees, it was too bony for him, but she wasn't
bad. She liked to reach behind him and cup his balls
feather-light with those soft fingers as she rode him. Her
blond hair moved over her face and trailed across her
tits. She was grinding at him energetically, but she kept
talking, which aggravated him. He found it hard to get
off when she was distracting him like this.

'A - million - dollars,' Iris grunted. 'Oh! Oh! And I bet
it's just the beginning, too.'

Michael plunged back and forth, angling his cock in
the way she loved. 'Shut up, honey.'

'You're a genius,' Iris breathed. Her skin was mottling,
and he saw her nipples all purple and full with blood. 'I
always knew you wouldn't stay poor. I knew you weren't
a loser.'

Some part of his brain registered her talking, but it was
nothing to worry about now. His whole world was the
sweet thickness of her wet pussy clamping around him, in
and out, involuntarily gripping him. 'Just shut up, OK?
Shht up.'

'But - it's - so exciting,' Iris babbled. 'A millionaire!'
Michael growled low in his throat. If she wouldn't shut
up, he would shut her up. He lifted her up by her scrawny
hipbones, and tilted her slim body backwards on his
knees, thrusting his cock deep inside her. Yes, he could
feel the nubby head of it against the wall of her, that
yielding, melting spot which turned any woman crazy.
She groaned and tried to buck away from him. Often at
first, the sensation was so strong they couldn't take it.
Mercilessly he held her in position, and shut his eyes, and
thrust and thrust, and now she was gasping and sobbing
and shuddering on top of him. He felt her pulse, her
groin muscles in spasm around him, contracting in and
out, in and out, violently, as he milked her. His orgasm
started and he felt his balls shrink small and tighten with


94

the pressure, and ruthlessly he kept at it even as she
subsided. His world exploded and the release came, so
that he wasn't even aware of her or her cries, or anythifig
other than the tightness and pleasure of his cock pumping
into her.

Michael breathed in, hard, and came out of his stupor.
The white-hot pleasure of riding Iris dissipated like mist
on a bathroom mirror now he was done. He lifted her
gently and rolled across the bed.

She was gasping and whimpering. 'Oh, Michael, that
was incredible. That was so incredible.'

He eyed her. She wasn't so groomed now, she was
reddened and perspiring, and her hair was plastered to
her angular face. He saw his thumb had left small white
marks around her waist. Her nipples were still up and
full, pointir]g out at him like angry missiles.

'What did you mean that I wasn't a loser?' he asked,
softly.

She shrugged, breathing heavily. 'What I said. I had
faith in you. I knew you would make money, that you
wouldn't stay a loser, living in this dump, you know, no
car.'

Michael looked at her expressionlessly. 'And what if I
hadn't gotten that bonus?'

Iris stood up and stretched her heated, slender body.
Now he was denuded of his lust, Michael considered her
more critically. She nee&d to eat more, for sure, and do
some squats. She needed a bigger butt. It was annoying to
have all those sharp angles digging into him when he was
trying to fuck her.

Iris padded across the room and reached for a large
towel, wrapping herself daintily up in it, like he hadn't
seen everything she had to offer from every angle.

'Really.' She drew a hand through her hair, tugging it
back. 'Why make problems where they don't exist? I
make way more than you do, but I knew that wouldn't

last.' She moved towards the bathroom. She didn't like
anybody to see her looking less than perfect. 'The point
is, you did make this bonus, and you're going places, so
we don't really have any problems.'

Smiling coyly, she blew him a kiss and tiptoed into the
bathroom. Iris tiptoed all over the apartment when her
shoes were off. Michael assumed that for her it represented
nature's high heels. She was a high-maintenance
girl, all the way down the line. They didn't really have
any problems, huh? Think again, baby. He stood wearily
and thought about the mechanics of dumping yet another
girlfriend. Another gold-digger. Did a girl think it was
attractive to be told you were now acceptable because
you'd made a million bucks? Were all girls like this? He
was drained from sex, too tired to think about it now.
Iris would shower, then he would shower and fall
straight into bed. Tomorrow night they would have their
talk. He was going places, but it would be without her.

Michael lay on his futon and regarded the high towers
of Wall Street right outside his window. The moon was
rising in the sky, and so was he. Tomorrow he would go
to Ernie Foxton and take delivery of the cheques for
himself and his staff.

He was a millionaire. He had made it. It was one of the
sweetest moments of his life.

Chapter


The alarm buzzed in her ear. Diana reached out and hit it
with one weary .hand. She'd been awake for hours. There
was too much to think about for her to get any sleep, and
she had to be into the office at eight this morning.

She lifted herself out of her lumpy bed and looked at
the grey, muggy dawn that was breaking over Manhattan.
Uptown, up high in her penthouse, where the air was
clearer and the Park was green in the sunshine, that two
faced bitch Felicity Metson was sleeping in her bed, with
her husband. Diana groaned. Oh, she must have looked
ridiculous last night, standing there dumb as a rock, her
mouth open like a dying flounder on the beach.

She beat herself up for her stupidity. When her other
friends had melted away like the San Francisco morning
mist, she had counted on Felicity. She should have known
something was up. Diana looked around her clean,
functional, soulless apartment with loathing. Fee had
wanted her in here and Out of Central Park West ASAP to
keep the coast clear for herself.

Claire had been right abou.t the scheming mistress.
Only the mistress in question wasn:t Mira Chen. It was
her best friend.

'Of course I was your friend, darling.' The image of
Felicity, smiling smugly like a crocodile about to swallow
a fish, swum back into her mind. 'I was your friend and Ernie's friend, too. You made such a ridiculous fuss and a
spectacle of him. Clearly he wasn't the right man for yoo.


I97

I'm just helping you get closure on the process you started.'

'I started it? I fucked Mira Chen?'

'It wasn't only Mira.' Oh, the satisfied look on Ernie's

face as he'd come out with that one. 'You knew the score
when you married me, you stuck-up cow. You're so
frigid, you forced me into it.'

Diana had stood and gazed from one to the other. She
imagined Felicity laughing, giving a blow by blow
account to Natasha, Jodie and the others. Probably she
had been doing that all along. She imagined the married
women, sitting on the best banquettes at the Russian Tea
Room, talking about Mira and Ernie, and the scene at the
apartment, and her low-class living quarters, and laughing,
their champagne flutes clinking. She couldn't.move.
It was like being in one of those nightmares where her
feet were stuck to the ground with superglue.

'You bastard,' she whispered.

Ernie gave a braying laugh. 'You bastard,' he mimicked.
'Is that the best you can do, love? You've seen my
offr, have you? Our lawyer says you haven't got a
prayer. Check it out; we've been together barely seven
months, and you walked out.'

'Because you were cheating,' Diana said. Her tongue
seemed stuck in her throat. 'I'll sue, here in America. You
won't have a dime left.'

Ernie laughed at her. It was amazing, Diana thought,

how she'd managed to blind herself. She'd thought he
loved her. 'I don't think so, babes. I've filed for divorce in
England, and you took a job over here, you moved out,
no phone call, nothing. By the way, don't bother trying to
empty the joint account. I've already done it.'

'What?' she gasped. She steadied herself On the ottoman
sofa that she'd scouted out after months of trying at

the Amsterdam fine antiques fair last year.

Ernie waved one thin hand condescendingly at her.


'98

'Don't worry. You got ten grand left in there. Can't see
my ex-wife on the streets. People might talk. Should tide
you over. Plus two fifty for being a good girl.'

'But I'm your wife,' Diana said. She blinked back the
tears, she so badly wanted not to cry in front of Felicity,

that smug, aggravating bitch, but she had no choice.
'Not for long,' Ernie said, smirking.

Diana had howled in misery and stumbled back into
the lobby. As she stepped into the elevator, the sound of
barely muted giggling from Felicity had reached her,
rising up like the hideous bubbling of a cauldron. She had
ridden down tO the lobby with tears streaming down her
face, and the elevator attendant had been reduced to
studying his shoes very carefully, making her, Diana, as
invisible as a lurching drunk on a bus.

MercifulIy the cabby who had taken her home - she
had no wish to be told by Richard he couldn't drive her
any more - didn't ask any questions, either. This was
New York, and misery was common. People minded
their own business here.

Diana shook her head, to get rid of the memories. This
was real. This utter nightmare, it was real. She had
checked last night, and this morning she couldn't even afford her rent for more than a couple of months. Ernie
was determined to cast her off, to make a beggar of her.
She was suddenly, pathetically grateful for the grinding
routine of her job.
Determined to make the best of it, Diana regarded her
tired reflection in the mirror. She was a pro at beauty. She
had time to take care of those dark shadowS, to wash her
hair, to put on her best stuff, to douse herself with her
bottle of Joy - the most expensive scent in the world. No
matter how bad things got, she still had her beauty.

I always relied on it, Diana told herself, and I still can

now.

I99


Diana turned up at the office at five to eight. She was
wearing one of her sexiest business suits, a camel cotton,
tailored suit with a sharply cut jacket that emphasised the
flare of her breasts and bottom, and the dainty narrowness
of her waist. Her face was a muted, glowing palette
of berry and bronze colour, the concealers had erased the
shadows, and she wore her hair up, neatly, in a French chignon. Defiantly, her engagement and wedding rings
still glittered on her left hand. A fragrant cloud of scent
hung about her, if you dared to get close enough. The
sheerest Woolford hose and butterscotch Patrick Cox
courts completed the look.

She'd relished every whistle and whoop even as she
pretended to ignore them. Male validation, Diana told
herself, its what I need right now.

Her mood had improved. At twelve thirty today, she
had a meeting with Herb, the best, hardest divorce
lawyer in Manhattan. Hearing the name Foxton, the
assistant had instantly cleared a time slot for her. She'd
show Ernie where he could stick his two hundred and
fifty grand. If he was left without a cent, it wouldn't be
her fault.

Meanwhile, she had to deal with Michael.

Her boss was already waiting for her. Diana took in
the dark suit, the black shoes, the thickly muscled chest.
Cicero looked the same as he always did. She felt a small,
flesh surge of nervous adrenaline. What the hell kind of
hoop was he going to have her jump through this

morning? More work? Like she needed that right now.
'I'm here,' she said, bluntly.

Cicero looked her over. What a gorgeous creature she
was. He mentally peeled off the light cotton from those
stupendous breasts and that grade-A ass. She annoyed
him, the way she was so effortlessly perfect every second
of the day. How he'd love to slide that tight skirt up over
the creamy rounds of her butt, push her over his desk,

2.OO


and trace his name with the tip of his tongue across the
freckled valley of her breasts. He thought he could have
those nipples hard and dark as sea-washed pebbles in
twenty seconds. He imagined her losing her composure,
that glossy hair sweaty and tangled as it fell across his
chest, the flat stomach bucking against him, her elegant
fingers clutching at him as she wriggled about under
him ...

Michael made himself look up. He was glad these
pants had a roomy cut. He mustn't allow this girl to
cause him any loss of control. Besides which, she was
married. She was fully off-limits.

He'd bet she'd squirm like an eel, though.

'So I see.' His voice was remarkably businesslike and
calm. 'I've .got some more work I'd like to try you out on.'

'I think. I have all the work I can handle.'

'That's for me to decide,' Michael told her, b!untly. 'I
want you to look over some more pictures and designs.'

'What for?' Diana tossed back her gleaming dark hair.
He thought about catching it, and wadding it in her
mouth while he roped her hands and feet together and
played with her until she was lifting her body up to him,
helplessly. 'You don't file pictures. Don't tell me you
want to start filing all the pictures as well.'

He grinned down at her. It was the most cocky,
annoying grin imaginabl.

'What are you going to do - stamp your foot?' he
asked.

Diana's face darkened. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'Too bad, if I am,' Cicero said.

He twisted the key in the lock of the door. It was
quaint, the way these offices opened with a key. Upstairs
it was all codes and passwords. Diana noted how Cicero
hated overheads. What a contrast to her husband's - was
he still her husband? - yen for luxury. How much was

2,0I


the private jet, the two choppers, the monthly flights out
to Atlantic City and the golf-club schmoozing for the
super-agents and star writers costing his shareholders?
Plenty, but Ernie didn't care about OPM, other people's
money. Only his own, from which he'd almost completely
cut her off.

There was a heavy tread on the stairs. She turned to see
a besuited man coming towards them. She recognised
him, it was Reggie Shropton, one of Ernie's in-house
lawyers.

'Hello, Reggie,' Diana said politely.

A faint spot of red.rose to the pallid centre of his
cheeks and he didn't look up. He was clutching two sets
of papers.

'Hello, Mrs Foxton.' She blinked; it used to be.Diana.
'Mr Cicero. I am afraid I have some papers for you.'

Cicero reached out and grabbed them. 'Papers already?
Starting early this morning, huh?'

'In a manner of speaking.' He lifted his head and stared
at Michael with fishy eyes. 'I'll have to ask you to give me
that key.'

'Excuse me?' Cicero snapped.

'These are termination papers for yourself and Mrs
Foxton. Every other employee at Green Eggs has been
served. The company is withdrawing its stake and closing
down the operation at this time. As per your contract, a
month's salary is enclosed in lieu of notice.'

For a second Michael said nothing. He was trying to
process the information, and it didn't compute.

'I suppose it would be far too much to hope that you're
joking.'

'I never joke,' Reggie said thinly.

'Apparently somebody at Blakely's does, though. I
have a contract.'

'With a company consolidation clause, valid for the
first eight months, that invalidates further obligations on


ZOZ

the part of Blakely's, including office space, overheads,
health plans - and bonuses,' Reggie said. There was ,a
nasty glitter in his eye.

Diana recognised it. It was a favourite look of Ernie's.
Her heart dropped. Her job had evaporated. As little as it
had been, it was all she had.

'I'll have to ask you both to leave. I hope you can do so
quietly and not force me to call security,' the lawyer said.

'That won't be necessary,' Diana said quietly. She
nodded to Cicero. 'We're leaving. You can tell my
husband he will be hearing from my lawyer later today.'

'And mine,' Michael Cicero added. His thick, bull-like
neck was red with anger.

'Certainly,' Reggie Shropton said, in a tone that
implied he eeally didn't care.


They wal[(ed out together. It was a nasty experience.
Holding on to the severance forms, they passed several
Blakely's staff as the elevator spat them out into the
lobby. Janet Jensen was one; she gave a nasty little
snigger as Diana brushed past her.

Michael Cicero said absolutely nothing to her, but she
could feel the anger prickling out of his skin, like the
static on a balloon. Wordlessly, he took her arm and
shepherded her ficross Seventh Avenue. He was silent
until they got to Broadway and Fifty-first. Then he
yanked his hand from her elbow and glared down into
her eyes.

'What the hell is going on here?'

'How would I know?' Diana asked, angrily brushing
her hair back. 'Don't look at me as if I had something to
do with this.'

Cicero gave a short bark of laughter. 'Man, that's a
good one. You little English girls can sound so sweet and
innocent when you feel like it. It's almost as if I didn't


zo3

know you were married to that weak little jerk on the
sixteenth floor.'

Diana bit back the retort. Doubtless her divorce would

be all over the papers tomorrow, but until that happened,
he didn't need to know everything. The sun sparkled on
the glass of the skyscrapers and over the billboards
advertising the Broadway shows. She was standing on the
sidewalk, but she felt unbalanced, almost like she was
dreaming. The whole situation was surreal.

'I didn't know a thing about this,' she said, ice cold.

'I'm not privy to everything Ernie does. I got fired, too.'
'Bullshit.'

'Do you mind not using that language?' she said,
primly.

He stared at her, like she was from anothe planet.

'You know what, lady? I do mind. Funny, huh? A man
works all his life to start a company. Nights. Days. Sleeps
on the floor. Gets something good out there. Turns down
other deals. Takes this one - and gets shut down,
overnight, by - what? A blackguard? A bounder? I prefer
to say asshole. I think it's more accurate.'

'I worked hard enough at that company. If you didn't

cover yourself legally it's not my fault.'

'Right.' Michael's dark eyes drilled into her. He was so
bestial, so ferocious. A million miles away from Ernie's
thin, spiteful little body, 'You worked, sure - like Marie
Antoinette playing at being a milkmaid. Now what? You
whistle up your chauffeur and go back to your Central
Park penthouse.'

'That's not fair,' Diana said, sullenly.

'The hell it's not. You want to know why you were so

disliked by the girls in the office?'

'Not particularly.'

'Well, I'll tell you anyway. You talked to them about a

drink after work and dropping them off where t.hey live.


zo4

They barely make rent; you're boasting about your
chauffeur-driven limo.'

Diana flushed. 'I wasn't boasting. I was offering them' a
ride.'

'How many office dogsbodies do you think get driven
to work, Diana?'

'Dogsbody,' Diana snarled, 'right. That's what I was to
you. A dog. Somebody you enjoyed kicking around just
because she had a bit more money and a bit more class
than the rest of you. Nothing but shabby jealousy. I made
an effort for your wretched little company.'

'Wretched, huh? Is that what you told your husband
when you ran upstairs with your spy's report?'

Diana was enraged. 'I didn't spy on you. Why don't
you stop b!aming other people for your problems and
look in the mirror. Or better still, stop whining and do
somethin about it.'

What a bitch she was, Michael thought. Beautiful, but
such a bitch.

'That's a great idea. I'm going to see my lawyer.' The too,' Diana said. 'Goodbye, Mr Cicero.'

She turned on her heel and walked away from him.

zo5


Chapter z3


'You did what?'

Herb Brillstein, the lawyer Claire recommended, stared
at her in horror. The chair she was sitting in, expensive
dark-green leather though it was, suddenly seemed very
uncomfortable. Diana shifted in her seat. She glanced out
over Fifth Avenue, looking serene and calm from the
eighteenth-floor offices of Brillstein, Brooks, the most
savage divorce lawyers in Manhattan. When she rang,
they had fallen over themselves to get her into their
offices. Ernest Foxton's wife. But during her introductory
session with the head of the firm, Diana felt the
temperature drop several degrees every minute.

"You departed from the marital home? Voluntarily?
And you haven't contacted your husband in weeks? And
you weren't working, but you took paid employment?'

'That's right.' Diana blushed. 'I just didn't want to be
around him.'

'So you let him move into a hotel. You haven't been
married long, Mrs Foxton, less than a year. Your
position is very weak. You need. to move back into your
home immediately. How long were you dating before
you married?'

'Two years,' Diana muttered.

'Maybe we can work with that. But you must go home,
Mrs Foxton. At once.'


Diana left the office feeling rather dazed. The lawyer.
made it all sound so simple, but she hadn't thought that


o6

way. 'Take possession of the marital home.' She hadn't
expected divorce; only for Ernie to see the error he had
made and to come crawling back to her. Diana shivered
in the thin winter sun. Was her mistake going to be fatal?
Reconciliation was not a possibility. Not with Felicity's
laugh still haunting her nights. She didn't want to go
home, and the immigration lawyer had said that she
could stay as her marriage to an American citizen was
made in good faith. The dinner parties, written up in the
New York tabloids, proved that. But now she had lost
even the shitty little job she had. She wondered how
much her lawyer would charge per hour, and winced.
Offices like his carried a lot of overhead. Yes, it was
imperative to get a decent wad of cash out of Ernie. If he
had to bite te bullet and live with him for a few months,
so be it.

Diana had no illusions. Ernie had fired Michael Cicero
like he had fired many men before him. But he krew that
she was working in that office too. The firing had been a
deliberate insult.

She was going to have a fight on her hands.

She had no idea how big a fight.


Her cab pulled up outside their building on Central Park
West, and Diana stepped out carefully, trying to avoid
getting salt stains from the icy slush on her Ralph Lauren
brogues. She had selected her outfit with care; a dark
Donna Karan dress with a Hermes bag, simple and
classic. She was carefully made-up, and her blond hair
was secured in a neat chignon. So far the press had not
got wind of the separation, of her firing, but if a snapper
was there, Diana wanted to be ready for them. She
considered removing her sunglasses from her bag, but
decided against it. It might look to Ernie as though she
wanted to hide red-rimmed eyes, and Diana was not
prepared to show weakness.


zo7

She stepped through the door and made for the
elevator.

'Excuse me, madam.' It was the deep Texas twang of
Brad, the security guard. He approached her, blushing

slightly, and hung his head.
	'Do you have an

appointment?'

'Of course not. I live here.'

Brad's flush deepened. 'I'm afraid you'll need an

appointment to see Mr Foxton, ma'am.'

Diana's brow arched delicately.

'You know me, Bradley. I'm Diana Foxton. Mrs
Foxton.' She unsnapped her bag, letting her engagement
ring sparkle in the light, and fished out her keys. 'See? I
live in the penthouse. I can show myself up.'

'I'm sorry, ma'am. The apartment is only in your
husband's name. He's informed the building management
not to let you up.'

Diana breathed in sharply. A bolt of anger and fear
surged through her.

'You might want to give me those keys,' Brad suggested,
taking a step towards her.

Diana drew herself up and stopped him dead in his
tracks with a single, icy glance.

'Don't even think about touching me unless you and your company want to be sued for assault. I'm keeping
these keys.'

'Yes, ma'am.' The guard stepped back instantly. 'But
you'll find they won't work any more. Mr Foxton asked
us to let you know, if you turned up, that he had the
locks changed.'

She shook her head. 'Very well; I'll be back with a
warrant.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Brad said, politely and implacably.


She went back to her rental place and called Herb
Brillstein:


zo8

'Damn. You never should have moved out.'

'Well, I did,' Diana snapped. 'How do we fix this?'

need to take him to court. We'll retain you on a no

win no-fee basis, so don't be concerned about that.'
'If you win, how much is your fee?' she asked.

'Fifty per cent,' he said. 'In the meantime, you'll need
to live on whatever budget you can. Please keep records
of everything.'

'H1 be sure to,' Diana said, faintly.

She hung up.


Diana looked around her with disbelief.

The rental apartment was small and cramped. Instead
of antique furniture and delicate oriental rugs, the dcor
seemed to b,e right out of Ikea. Red-brick walls decorated
with black-and-white posters of babies and tall houseplants
in'terracotta pots. There was a small television,
and a kitchenette - she wouldn't call it a kitchen .- with a
microwave, a fridge and precious little else. When she
said, 'Where's the dishwasher?' Rita, her potential roommate,
just laughed.

Her bedroom - the one the letting agent had boasted
about - looked out over a gas station on Tenth Avenue. It
was cramped and contained a single bed, in functional
pine with a white cotton coverlet.

'I like the bedspread,' .Diana lied. 'Where did you get
it?'

Her prospective landlady examined her Lee Press-on
nails and said, 'K-Mart. Half price, in the sale.'

'That's great,' Diana said weakly.'A bargain.'

'Si, bargain. Like thees apartment.' Another quick
once-over of her nails. 'Only thousand a month, one
month deposit payable in advance.'

Diana almost crumpled with embarrassment, but she
knew she had to do this. 'A thousand is too much. Nine
hundred is all I can manage.'


zo9

Rita looked up from her nails and fixed her heavy

lidded eyes on Diana. 'I got three other people who want

the place. For thousand.'

'Yes, but they're flaky. I'm quiet, and responsible.'
Rita considered. 'Eef you will clean up whole flat, each
week, I say nine hundred. I like English people. Very
clean. I like also clean.'

Diana swallowed. She glanced round the train wreck

of the living room: empty Domino's pizza cartons, beer
cans, make-up towelettes and two overflowing ashtrays.
There were probably cockroaches. Then she thought of
the bad news her lawyer had delivered: she had little or
no case. Her best hope was to refuse to grant a divorce,
and hope that Felicity was so desperate for a ring that she
would get Ernie to up his settlement.

At any rate, she had no money, and this was at least a
Manhattan apartment with her own bedroom and a
working washing machine.

Diana was just too proud to go crawling back to
England, or take charity from Claire. 'That's a deal,' she

said.


Diana moved three cases of clothes into her bedroom.
She had no room for the rest of them. She had to pay to
put most of her stuff into storage, another expense she
could barely afford. After she'd unpacked, taking everything
meticulously out of its tissue-paper wrapping, she
had four suits, five dresses, six shirts, four pairs of pants,
and only four pairs of shoes. It was heartbreaking.

'So many clothes!' gasped Rita, eyeing her suspi
ciously. Nobody with such clothes should live in a place
like this. They must be knockoffs, or else the English girl
had stolen them. 'I never seen such nice things.'

'Thank you.' Diana forced down the retorts that came
to mind. Her snobbery would have to take a back seat.
She needed this place.


ZIO

'Yes, well. I show you clean stuff. Come.'

Diana followed Rita's ample bottom into the kitchen
where a filthy bucket containing a mop, a brush and a
dirty washcloth was shoved under the exposed sink.

'I don' have Roach motel,' Rita commiserated. 'We
need get new one. Anyway, I leave now. You clean.'

She picked up some ugly-looking candles with pictures
of angels on them and squeezed out of the door in a waft
of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke.

You can do this, Diana told herself, swallowing down
the lump of tears that threatened to rise in her throat.
Sure, it's shaming to be cleaning up filth on my own, but
I live here. It's either that or live in a dump like this.

For five hours she scrubbed and" swept and washed
filthy dishes. She collected three bags full of garbage, and
struggled dawn six flights of stairs to the groaning
dumpster .at the back of the building. The tiny Hoover
sucked up so much dirt that the burgundy carpet turned
out to be bright magenta. Diana tied a towel over her
nose and mouth, and beat the rugs out of the window
while clouds of dust billowed up, choking the pigeons.

It took her for ever, but when she was done, the tiny
apartment was clean. Under the piles of rubbish she'd
discovered a tatty leather couch and one armchair. The
floors were hardwood, maybe she could persuade Rita to
throw out the revolting rug. Even the air seemed cleaner
and fresher now that she. had sucked out so much filth.
She threw out some of the ugliest plants, certain her new
room-mate would never notice. Exhausted, Diana peeled
off her dirty jeans and T-shirt and crept to the shower
room to rinse herself off. There was no bath, of course.
That was a luxury she was going to have to live without.

Shattered, exhausted, miserable, Diana slunk back into
her tiny, hot little bedroom, stretched out on the coverlet,
and shut her eyes. She was asleep when her head hit the
pillow.

She rang nobody. What would she say? 'I'm living in
Hell's Kitchen, I've been fired from my job and my
marriage, and I clean to make part of my rent?' No, it
was too humiliating. She'd get herself a new job, Diana
decided. She had youth, class and a certain notoriety.
Maybe she couldn't afford the best restaurants and the
charity lunches any more, but she wasn't going to let that
beat her. She was Diana Foxton - still - and she had a
brain.

Saying little, to Rita, Diana swallowed her pride and
went back to every magazine that would see her. Every

place she went she heard the same story.
'We need current experience.'
'We're looking for younger girls.'

'We have no vacancies at this time,' the sickly sweet Vogue personnel officer assured her, 'but we'll be sure to
check back with you when something turns up.'

She tried other places. Even publishing houses. She got
little for her trouble but blisters and stares. Wasn't that
the ex-wife of Ernie Foxton? Diana sat there and sweated
olat the horrors of the interviews, the snide comments, the
pointed questions. Working for a swiftly shut subsidiary
of Ernie's didn't seem to count for anything.

'Yes, well. It wasn't real work, Ms Foxton.' The people
at HarperCollins were polite enough, but the woman
here was telling her the same story. 'The company
receives hundreds of applications each month from
college students and other qualified personnel who've
formerly worked here.'

'I see.' Diana gazed despairingly into her lap. She had
eaten humble pie for weeks now, and what good had it
done her? Maybe she should give in and take Ernie's
paltry cheque. Maybe she should crawl back to London
with her tail between her legs. The curse of Hello! strikes
again.

'Can I make a suggestion?'

The polished young woman across the desk was giving
her the first kind smile she'd seen in days.

'Sure.' Diana shrugged. 'I'll listen to anything at this
point.'

'You need contacts,' she said. 'Some friend that'll give
you a job. Because nobody else is going to hire you.'


Diana managed to make it three blocks away before the
tears started. The lump rose up in her throat, like a
betrayal. Every morning she got up, washed her hair and

made up with costly cosmetics that she wouldn't

	be

		able

to replace when they ran out.

It got harder and harder to keep.her head high.
None of her former friends would talk to her. Natasha
seemed always to be out when she called. She'd left four
unreturned messages for Jodie and five for Laura before
the nasty'truth sank in. She was a pariah, and none of
them wanted anything to do with her. Except Claire, of
course. Claire had always told her she could get a job on
her own. Somehow going to Claire and begging for help
would be worst of all.

She refused to call Ernie. Partly out of pride, partly
because she wasn't sure he'd take her call. Diana
imagined being put off by his secretary. 'I'm sorry, Mrs
Foxton, he's not available. Can I take a message?'

She shook her head. It.would never come to that. Nor

was she going to run back to Daddy. What

	laugh

Felicity Metson would have over that.

There was a Starbuck's on the corner of Fortieth and
Park. Diana ducked into it and ordered herself a large
cup of black coffee with a sweet shot of Amaretto. She
took it to a corner table in the shadows, and decided to
consider her options. If there were any.

Papers for the customers hung on wooden racks.
Absently, Diana lifted the News, and stared in horror at
Rush and Molloy. Her own face, beautiful, sorrowful,

was staring out at her from the grimy newsprint. She was
looking exhausted and was entering a subway station.

Next to it was a snap of Felicity, wearing a long Calvin
Klein evening gown - how conventional, Diana thought dressed
up with a diamond necklace and long drop
earrings. Enough ice to sink the Titanic. Ernie, in a
ridiculous tuxedo and cummerbund, was at her side.
They were attending the super-prestigious New York
Literary Lions bash - one of the charities, Diana
remembered, feeling sick, that she'd been asked to chair. OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW, read the headline.


Nobody can say Ernie Foxton doesn't practice what
he preaches. The slash-and-burn downsizing in his
company obviously extends to his marriage. "Former
society queen 'Lady' Diana is now taking out her
subway tokens, while new Fox flame Felicity M.
sparkles brighter than the fourth of July. Diana's
reportedly scrabbling for a job, too. We say good luck
to her. If you can make it here, you can make it
anywhere!


Oh my God, Diana thought.

'Are you OK, hon?'

The waitress was hovering with her refill. 'You look
kinda pale.'

'I'm fine.' To prov it, Diana sipped at her sweet
coffee. 'Thank you.'

'If you're sure,' the woman said, melting away.
Tears of shame and humiliation prickled in Diana's
blue eyes, but she forced them back. No way was she
about to break apart in public, and no way was she going
home. There was a bubbling knot of anger in her
stomach. Goddamn Felicity! She visualised Felicity laughing
at her with the other girls. Her small fist curled into a
defiant ball on the table.

will get a job, Diana vowed, even if I have to wait
tables.

What had all those women said?

No experience. No references.

Diana looked out across Park Avenue, at the rich
society matrons and the dog walkers, the doormen
standing outside co-op buildings, several of which she
had reviewed and rejected. That was her world; not this!
She flipped through the paper, barely seeing any of the
headlines. It was something to keep her from breaking
down in public. The English were all about the stiff upper
lip.

Suddenly she stopped. In the busi.ness section, which
she never read, there was a tiny headline, tucked away in
the bottom le, ft-hand corner of the page. AFTER THE EGGS

... THE BACON.


Which young entrepreneur - for all of five minutes - is
starting again? In the same East Wllage digs he busted
out of barely a month ago? Ah well ... easy come,
easy go, Michael. We hope East Eleventh isn't too
much of a drop from the multinational midtown
tower...


Her heart jumped. It was him. It had to be him.
Diana's fingers curled round her coffee cup. Michael
Cicero had done nothing but be rude, crude and obnoxious
to her. Was she desperate enough to go asking for his
help?

A breeze ruffled the edges of the paper, flicking it back
to the picture of her. Once again, Felicity's diamonds
glittered mockingly up at her from the black-and-white
ink.

She picked up her bag and stepped out onto the street
to hail a cab. No more goddamn subways.

IChapter 24


'There's nothing we can do, Mr Cicero.' John Motta, the
Italian lawyer who was assigned to him, at least gave
him the courtesy of an explanation. 'Grenouille and Bifte
aren't employed directly by Blakely's, so there's no
obvious conflict of interest. You said you signed a

disclosure and explanation policy form.'

'She lied to me. Straight up.'

'Right, and she's probably getting a backhander from
their main lawyers. Difficult to prove. It would cost you
plenty, and we wouldn't take a case like this on
contingency. Too tough to win.' He smiled, showing one
gold-capped tooth. 'Suing lawyers is always a mess.'

Michael sat there. 'You're telling me they can take my
work, my company, my fonts, my illustrators and my
contacts, and I can't do a thing about it?'

'Zip. They had you believing you were in partnership,
correct?'

'Damn right.'

'You never were. You were an employee until the
bonus phase kicked in. They terminated you just before
that happened, without prejudice.'

Michael got to his feet and paced around the plush
offices, looking out at the financial district spread before
him to the south. In the soothing, air-conditioned
atmosphere of Greenbaum and Fischer, he was hearing
these calm words telling him his dream was dead.

'It seems prejudiced enough to me. I have to start over.
With nothing.'

'A legal term.' Motta bit back a smile. He admired the
man's anger and passion. A pity none of it was tempered
with realism. Foxton had done a major number on this
boy.

Motta, usually very detached, was sorry he had to drop
a few more bombshells.

'You had a no-compete clause, good for one year.'
'And?' Michael asked, his voice dangerously soft.
'That means you can't start again. Not children's
publishing. Not children's books in any form. Plus, Seth
Green, and your other creatives - they can either work
for Foxton, or not work at all. At least not in the book
business. If they want to be illustratgrs, they have to wait
a year to do it for you.'

Michael' heart did a slow flip in his chest. That was it
then. He could not take a year off work. Game, set and
match tooFoxton.

'I'll call Seth,' he said after a few moments. 'He has to
draw. Stopping him drawing would be like stopping
Pedro Martinez from pitching.'

The lawyer nodded. 'I'm sorry we couldn't help.'
'Not your fault.' Michael turned to leave, then stopped.
'Just one last question. Am I barred from working in

children's fiction, or from all kinds of books?'

'Let me check.'

Michael's pulse sped. up as the smaller man ,ruffled
through the papers. Already he had begun to formulate
schemes for his revenge. What if he came out with a new
poetry line, accessible stuff, or. maybe travel guides, or
even

'Yes.' Motta's tone was final. 'I'm sorry. You cannot

work in the book business for the next year.'

'Thank you,' Cicero said.

He paid his bill on the spot, at the receptionist's office.
This was an episode in his life he wanted over and done
with.



	I7

He pictured Ernie Foxton, waiting to get his revenge

for having to beg him to re-enter his offices. Michael had

to give him credit. It had been pretty complete.

You little fuck, he thought to himself. I'll get you.

The problem was, he had no idea how.


First Michael had sex with Iris. Then he told her.

'I've got no money, no bonus, no company and no job.

From now on, it's cooking ourselves from the discount
produce left over in the deli at the end of the day. You
can cook while I look for work.'

Iris had looked at him and laughed. 'This is a joke,

yes?'

'No.' Michael noted the look of shocked horror on her

face and enjoyed himself for the first time that day. Iris's
skin was still flushed and pinked from her long session of
sex. Ever since she'd assumed he'd come home with two
hundred and fifty grand, Iris had been even more
insatiable than usual.

Far be it from him to deny a desperate woman. Too

thil for his taste, Iris was at least eager and inventive. She
sucked him like her life depended on it, and liked to try
to ride him, bucking on him like he was a prize horse at
a rodeo. But Cicero didn't let women take control. It was
an easy thing to reach up and grab Iris's wrists with one
hand, and laugh as she struggled to free herself, while he
plunged harder and harder into her. It never failed to turn
her on. When he took control .of her, so simply and
ruthlessly, her half-faked moans of ecstasy turned into
surprised, real ones, her pussy slicked up wet and tight
around him, grabbing helplessly on to him, and he sensed
the contractions just starting to shudder up in her flat
belly.

Michael didn't like feminists. He agreed with the fat

radio 'shock jock' who labelled them Feminazis. As far as
Michael was concerned, the history of the world was the


218

history of men. They talked about equality of opportunity,
but for every Ruth Bader Ginsburg or Margaret
Thatcher there were ten Irises, ten Diana Foxtolas.
Beauties who would eschew work for weddings. Still the
quickest, easiest route to riches.

'It's not a joke. I got nothing, and I don't cook, so I
hope you know a lot of recipes, babe.'

She ranted and raved for ten minutes, and then, as he'd
known she would, Iris packed up her stuff and got the
hell out.

'And if you think about calling, don't,' she said.

'I'll try to remember that,' Michael said, wryly. To her
fury, he patted her on the ass as she swept out the door.

Gold-diggers. Women were gold-diggers, 99 per cent
of them. W, hat had the sexual revolution done for them?
Not too much, as far as he could work out. Any girl who
had the chance would give up her job in ten seconds if she
could wind up a kept woman.

He thought of that joke Seth had told him, about the
Hollywood studio head who got fired and called his
trophy wife from a pay phone. 'But you still love me,
right?' he asks her. 'Honey, of course I still love you,' she
says sweetly, 'and I'll miss you, too.'

Iris couldn't get out fast enough once she realised that
he wouldn't be .her cushy ticket to the big time. Michael
was glad. It saved him the inevitable scene when he had
to dump her. He liked things to be crisp and clean.


He took a week to gather his .thoughts, and it wasn't a
pleasant one. His dwindling bank account would only
make the rent here for two more months, maximum.
Susan Katz called, crying and asking when she was
coming back to work, and Michael had nothing to tell
her. His contacts, built up over the last year, were useless.
He couldn't take a job in publishing. He couldn't even set
up another company. Foxton had him hamstrung.

Barnes & Noble called. Waldenbooks rang up too.
Two of the most prestigious independents in New York
City, offering him a buying post. But Michael couldn't
reconcile himself to that. He'd be working with books,
sure - but not creating, not influencing. He'd be a
numbers guy.

He turned the offers down, politely, and rented a tiny
space on East Eleventh, where he set up shop as a
consultant. Except that Motta told him he couldn't
consult to publishers, which made the whole thing
academic.

Michael couldn't afford an assistant to answer the
phone, but that was OK, because it barely rang. A friend
at Amazon gave him two thousand dollars to write a
paper for them on finding independent book com?anies
and getting them involved in the online revolution. It was
the only commission he'd ever had, and it was a drop in
the ocean of expenses that comprised living in New York.

He sat on a rickety chair, in his cramped office,
mopping up his sweat and trying to concentrate on the
woi'ds blinking up from his laptop. It felt like a sauna in
here, and the hot, heavy scents of the Dunkin Donuts
next door filled the room and threatened to choke him.
His jacket had long been surrendered and hung on a peg
on the door. He'd downed two large jugs of iced tea and
he was going to need to go out for a third one any minute
now, because he was thirsty enough in this heat to start
licking the condensation off the cracked glass fronting.

Nothing was neat about this place except for the brass
plate outside the door. Cicero Consultants, it said, in
small, businesslike letters. Michael had it hand made. It
cost him seventy bucks he could barely afford, but it was
worth it. It felt like the last touch of class he had.

The tiny, hand-affixed bell jangled. Michael sat bolt
upright, annoyed to be caught without his jacket on.
Finally, a customer. He thanked God. He needed one

right now. Maybe a rep from one of the major stores
would be looking for a complete overhaul of their
stocking policy. Better yet, maybe an agency would isk
for his help. He'd managed to make stars of five complete
unknowns before he got canned. Who knew who it might
be?

The door swung open.

'Hi, Michael,' said Diana Foxton.

He stared at her. She wore a simple cotton dress in an
Indian print, flat sandals, and was carrying a tote bag.
Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail that made her
look even younger, and a breath of perfume wafted in

wi h her.

She wore no make-up, and seemed amazingly
beautiful. ,

'Come to gloat?' Michael demanded. 'If so, please, enjoy yourself, Mrs Foxton, and then get out. I'm a busy
man.'

'I can see that,' Diana said, looking around the empty
office. It was devoid of furniture apart from a fax
machine and a phone.

'Charming as ever.' Michael gritted his teeth. 'Now
you have your report to take back to your husband,
please leave me to get on with my work.'

She stood in the centre of his room, hesitantly. The
thought crossed his mind that it was the first time he'd

ever seen Diana Foxton nervous.

'Can I sit down?'

'If you must.' Cicero was puzzled, but maybe the heat
was making her faint, or something; He didn't want the
chick crashing to the ground on his property. He
indicated the hard chair positioned in front of his desk.
'Go ahead.'

'I need to ask you a favour,' she said, quietly.

Michael's brow lifted. 'Yeah? Amusing. What favour
would that be? To provide your husband with more

amusing anecdotes of how his little spy kept him
updated?'

Her eyes flashed. 'I told you, I tdidn't spy on you. And

he's not my husband.'

Cicero shrugged. 'If you're not Diana Foxton, you're a

dead ringer for her.'

'I am Diana Foxton. For the moment. I'm also
separated, in the process of being divorced.' She tossed a
folded copy of the News across the desk to him. 'That's
me, and that's my ex-husband. I found out about Green
Eggs the same day you did. Ernie had served me with
divorce papers the night before. I think it was his idea of
a joke.'

He was sceptical. Diana sat across from him, blushing

with the embarrassment of being forced to wash hr dirty
linen in front of him. He was so butch. Ridiculously
masculine. A big gorilla, she told herself, with all that
silky black hair.

'Yeah? And you're telling me you really worked at that

job?'

'My work got done, didn't it?' she asked coldly. 'I

don't think you need to ask questions about my motivations.
I did what you asked me to. And now I need a
reference.'

Cicero grinned suddenly. 'You came here to ask me for

a reference?'

'Yes.' She shifted in front of him; her slim body, with

all those curves, moved deliciously. 'I - I--' she blushed,

and fell silent.

'Go on,' he prompted, mercilessly.

'I can't find a job.' Diana's cheeks flamed. 'I had no
reference from you, and vorking for my husband's
company didn't seem to count.'

'But you're a rich girl. Why don't you just go back to
England?'


2.2.2.

'I don't give up that easily' she said, magnificently
cold.

Cicero couldn't help it, he quite admired her. What it
must have cost her to come in here and ask him for help.
So, the spoilt little brat was getting her first reality check.
He looked down at the pictures in front of him. One
showed the weary Diana, the other the glittering Felicity,
and all he could think was what a moron Ernest Foxton
was to pick the second girl.

'I'm not going to ask your reasons,' he said, 'because I
don't care about them. But I guess I misjudged you. I
suppose I owe you a favour. First, a reference from me
would be worthless, because Blakdy's discredited me.
Second, you need one to get hired. It's Catch-twenty-two.
You gotta lave a job to get a job.'

Diana lowered her blue eyes. 'That's just great. How the hell can I swing that? I only worked eight months in
my whole life, and that was a year ago on another
continent.'

'You can come and work for me,' Michael said.
Surprise made her rude. 'Work for you? I don't think

SO.'

'It's the best offer you'll get.' Cicero shrugged. 'Look,
lady, I don't like you either, but this is an office. You
don't need to like me, you just need to do what I tell you
and turn up on time. I can only hire you for maybe a
month. It's real short term, too, but at the end of it you
get a reference. I can pay you eight hundred dollars, no
benefits.'

Diana looked across at him.

'I'll take it,' she said.

223


Chapter z5


The days crept by, and the temperature crept up.

Diana learned things she'd never thought herself
capable of learning, and it stung her. She learned how to
get up twenty minutes earlier to avoid the worst of the
subway crush. She comparison shopped at the delis and
supermarkets for the cheapest washing-up liquid, and
bought last-day discounted meat and fish. To keep the
bugs out of her apartment, she learned to clean twice a
day. She bought a small portable fan she couldn't afford,
and learned how to sleep in her bra and panties lying
uncovered on top of the bed. The heat in Manhattan
see.ped up from the sidewalk, cooked a little more
between the close-set concrete valleys, and thickened
through the dirty windows of her apartment. It was a
full-time job to keep her skin cool and her make-up on
her face.

Meanwhile, there was Michael Cicero.

She disliked him, but she had to respect him. Each day
he was out there, hustling. Sometimes he left at nine and
pounded the pavement until fou forty-five. Diana sat in
his cramped office, watching a phone that never rang.
She did what she could. She tidied the place and swept it,
made minor repairs, and even repainted one cracked
wall. She fetched coffee and magazines, and pretended
she was interested. She talked to a bargain-basement
accountant about maximising Michael's tax write-off.

Diana knew she'd have quit long before if she were


zz4

Michael. There was stubbornness, and there was stupidity.
Cicero had a degree and an employment history; he
could get work elsewhere. An English teacher, somethirg
like that.

But Michael wasn't interested in some other job. He
came in each day, wrote up whatever tiny project he was
working on - if there was any work - went to knock on
all the doors that stayed closed to him, and then left.

And she sat at her desk in the stifling heat and read
magazines.

Time was running out for them both.


The doorbell jangled, and Michael. came in, his white
shirt crisp, his pants pressed. He didn't look like someone
about to go, under.

'How did it go?'

He shrtgged. 'Same as usual, I guess. How about you?'
'I reorganised the office,' Diana lied. She got the office
straight two weeks ago, but she figured it would make
him feel better.

'I bet.' He gave her a slow, knowing grin, and she

1
	blushed. Cicero had a disturbing habit of making Diana
feel undressed when he looked at her. Nobody could be

more formal, more reserved, but still, it was as though
her dress was being peeled from her shoulders, her bra
cups tugged down from her breasts. Annoyed with
herself, she felt her nipples harden.
Desire was a trick. It never got satisfied.

He came across to where she was sitting and loomed
over her, and Diana shrank from him, like she always
did.

'What are you reading?' he asked.

Diana handed over the magazine. 'There was an article
on the Internet about how computing is making kids
dumber. Concerned Parents of America, that sort of
thing.'

'Yeah.' Michael flipped through it. 'I can see why, too.'

'Can I ask you something?' she said.

Cicero was surprised. He looked down, which was a
mistake. Diana was leaning forwards eagerly, and her
large, lightly freckled breasts were pushed together right
under his nose. He caught a glimpse of the caramel lace
of her bra. Damn. What a body she had.

'Sure,' Michael said, trying to keep his mind out of the

gutter. He hadn't had a girl since Iris had left. An
automatic hard-on was already starting in his groin. Shit.
He moved out of the line of sight of her cleavage.

'The day Ernie had us fired. What were you going to

ask me to do?'

His lips curled upwards. 'You got pretty mad.
Actually, I was somewhat impressed with your ability to
judge book covers. I was thinking about giving you a
shot at working with our illustrators, picking out flames
and other in-book graphics.'

Diana's mouth opened slightly. Cicero envisaged Shutting
it with his. Her lips were plump and red, vulnerably
soft. His teeth would tear at them, biting them gently,
forcing them apart with his tongue while she pressed

those glorious tits up into his hands ...

'You really thought I could do that?'

Stop. Stop. 'Yes, you had real talent, visually.'

'I liked what I saw,' Diana said thoughtfully. 'I never

could draw, but I could pick stuff out. Look at that, for
example.' She pointed to a large colour spot detailing the
graphics on CD-ROM Encyclopedia. 'Boring, banal.
Why would a child be interested in that? I know I
wouldn't.'

Cicero looked closer at the magazine in his hand. She

was right. There was nothing there to interest a kid ...
He clapped the page shut and grasped Diana's hand.
'What? What did I say?' she asked, alarmed.
'Nothing. Everything.' Michael stood up straight, all


2a6

thoughts of sex vanished from his mind. 'You little
beauty. You found it. You did it. We're back!'

He made her put up a closed sign and switch on the
answer machine.

'We take the afternoon off?' Diana said.

'Don't be inane. I never take afternoons off. We're
going to take a meeting.'

Michael led her westwards, back into the Village at
Sixth and Twelfth, and ducked into French Roast. In the
chic coffee house, among the louche beat poets and lazy
students sipping their frapp6s, he sensed the old adrenaline
bubble up in him like a Louisiana swamp on
overdrive. He picked a table, and the lithe young
waitresses swarmed round to serve him. Diana had been
here alone, and it had taken her thirty minutes to get a
menu. She.watched the girls play for his attention. Really.
They could barely be more obvious if they had just
unbuttoned their tops, right there.

'You know I'm banned from publishing,' he said when

her vanilla hazelnut arrived with his espresso.

'I had picked that up, yes.'

Michael made an impatient gesture. 'The point is, my
expertise has been going to waste.'

'True. I've been in livelier cemeteries than our office.'
'The whole Green Eggs thing was about a new look on
old stories. To give child/'en something visual, something
worth reading.'

Diana sipped her coffee. 'I understand; they were good books.'

'Today what do kids do? Play computer games.' He
rifled through her magazine. 'And the article says most

computer games are mind-sapping rubbish.'
'Of course they are.'

'But they needn't be. I proved I can sell high-quality,
smart books. American parents are crying out for


zz7

something valuable to teach their kids. What if we just
went into computing?'

An unfamiliar sensation started to churn in Diana's flat
stomach. A second later she recognised it. Butterflies. She
had butterflies of excitement.

'That's ... a pretty good idea,' she said, slowly.

'No kidding it's a good idea.' He looked at her, but she
had the impression he didn't see her. His mind was
picturing a vast empire, she thought: limos, stock offerings,
the cover of Forbes. Modesty had never been
Michael's strong point. 'I still have contacts in publishing who ring me up every day, and most of them have CDROM
divisions.'

'But that's still publishing, isn't it?'
His face darkened. 'Yeah. Fuck.'
'Language,' Diana said, absently.

'Whatever. OK, so I have to go to a computer games

manufacturer, and get them to
	start educational

software.'

'But they don't know you.'

"'Nothing good is ever easy, babe. I'll need help. Your
job will change. You'll be scouting out hackers and code
writers, and guys who can draw pictures. You'll write my

letters and come with me to the banks.'

'What use would I be at the banks?'

'You look classy,' he said, as though pointing out the
obvious.

'But ... but Michael ...'

'I'm not interested in buts. You were going to say the

month was almost done, and how will I pay your salary?'
She blushed. 'Something like that, I'm afraid.'

'Don't worry about it. You let me take care of it,'
Michael said intently. 'If your cheque isn't there, you

have my permission to walk.'

'Thanks,' she said dryly.

'It's going to be hard and thankless at first. No more


zz8

nine to five. No more reading magazines and filing your
nails all day. Are you in?'

She glanced at her nails regretfully and wondered f
she'd ever get a decent manicure again. 'I'm in,' she said.


He wasn't kidding. Diana started setting her alarm for
6 a.m., and coming home at eight, not that she missed
the extra time in her cramped box of an apartment. She
started taking a flood of calls, typing up proposals and
brochures, registering the new company, dealing with
everything from lawyers to labels. Michael had no time
to help her with anything. Getting the first slice of
funding was like climbing the Eiger without oxygen dizzyingly difficult. Diana went to so many loan officers
that one bank blurred into another. She laid out sample
graphics and bound up Michael's papers. She got blisters
and learnod how to walk on them anyway. At night she
came home too exhausted for anything more than a pot
of pasta, a shower and the sleep of the dead.

At weekends she cleaned to placate Rita, shopped for
food and went over draft pitch letters with a highlighter.

Once or twice Diana even called her lawyer for another
helping of bad news; Ernie had everything tied up with
pre-trial motions. It might take months to get money out
of him.

When Michael finally came home with the funding,
they had all but given up. Citibank was prepared to take
the risk. The business plan paid off, and they had twenty
thousand dollars for staff and one project.

Cicero found their first code-writer. His name was
Opie Z., and he was eighteen years old, scruffy, and
brilliant. He was a tip-off from Seth Green, miserable in a
gilded cage over at Blakely's.

He sat in the offices with the brand-new portable air
conditioner and studied his shoes.

'Dude. I ain't much for nine to five. And I got a record. "


2z9

Couldn't do that Microsoft thing.' Ruminatively, he spat
chewing gum into a wastebasket in the corner. 'Nor the
Slick Willy Silicone Valley shit, neither. "The Imagine
Arts family".' He made a face. 'I don't got a family, and
if I did, they wouldn't ask for my rsum and shit.'

'Quite,' Michael said. The boy was smart; his defiant
street gear and low-slung swagger couldn't hide that for a
second. What the fuck. 'If you come and work here it's
basic wages. You get to write your own stuff. When I get
more money, you get more money.'

Opie thought about it. 'But I ain't about nine to five,
either.'

'Sure you are,' Cicero said, instantly. 'You turn up at
five past nine, just keep walking right past the door,
because you won't be wanted. This is for real.'

How can he be cool like that? Diana wondered,
hovering in the background with iced water for their
guest. We need this guy so badly it's not even funny.
Without him, this thing is dead in the water. Opie was
scowling at him, daring him to back down, but he was
clmly crossing his arms and leaning back, like the little
punk had nothing that could scare him.

The kid dropped his eyes first. 'OK. You better not
mess with my code, dude,' he said.

'Dude,' Cicero replied, 'I have no intention of doing
that.'

He extended one massive paw and took the boy's hand
in his own.

'Welcome to Imperial,' he said.


The first attempt at a game was a mess. Clumsy, slow
moving and crawling with enough bugs for a Hollywood
horror movie. Diana struggled along on slave wages until
Opie got it right.

But when he did, it was glorious.

Michael burst into the office.


z3o

'What is it?' Diana sprang tO her feet, almost alarmed
at the look on his face. He ran over to her and lifted her
up in a bear hug, making her gasp and squeal with shocl.
Michael never behaved like that. He was the biggest
tight-ass on the planet.

'It's this. This.' He high-rived the bewildered Opie. 'We
got a development cheque from Nexus Games. They
loved the ReadWrite code. They want to press ahead.
Take a look at this.'

'Wow.' Opie peered at the cheque. 'I ain't seen that
many zeros outside of a Backstreet Boys gig.' He
chuckled at his own joke.

Michael glanced over at Diana. 'You get a pay rise,
too,' he said. 'Call a temp service. Get some extra help.
We're in business.'

The funny' thing was, she thought a month later, that it
was almost enjoyable. There were six people now in the
cramped offices, working on the first complete game. She
had a secretary of her own, Mona. Mona was a hefty girl
and very smart. She didn't bother flirting with Michael.
Somehow, this endeared her completely to Diana. It was
just annoying to have to deal with all the stupid female
hormones.

Her new job was overseeing graphics. She worked
under Michael, finding packaging ideas, rewriting the
language of the game, trying to make it understandable
for children. He sent he out of the office looking for
illustrators.

'What will they know about .computers?' she asked,
perplexed.

He gave her another of his are-you-stupid looks.
'Nothing. We can just scan the work.'

She felt foolish, and it made her snappy. 'Fine. I'll
come up with something.'

He was a bastard, a slave driver,-and he expected
Diana to figure everything out for herself. When she


Z31

wanted a bag, she went to Hermes. Where did you go to
shop for cheap talent? Eventually, after her leads went
nowhere, Diana moved to the source. In the blistering
heat of the August sun, anyone rich fled the city. The only
people left were poor and hungry. When she turned up at
Forbidden Planet, Blue Cape, and the other underground
comic-book stores, they were happy to give her some
names. She met five or six artists, picked two, and
brought them back to her boss.

'I can't believe you found these guys,' Michael said.

'I know you couldn't believe it,' Diana retorted. 'But I
did.'

z3z


Chapter 26


The first game was a bust.

The second, a minor hit. Enough for a bank loan.
By the time summer eased into fall, Cicero had moved
offices. He set up in West Fourth Street, in an elegant
brownstone house. Five programmers and six illustrators,
all scouted by Diana, worked twelve-hour days, but
nobody minded. Michael cut them in on royalties and
bonuses, ant his success was their success.

Diana found she was working too hard to enjoy her
newfound status. She wasn't rich, and she wasn't back
where she wanted to be, but at least she was kissing the
bounds of respectable again. And in September, Herb
Brillstein called.

'He has a proposition for you,' Herb said.

Diana clutched the phone in her bedroom in Rita's tiny
place and prayed silently. It was neat, but too cramped to
take any longer. She wondered if her room-mate was
listening in to this call on her extension. The little bit of
money she made with Imperial was enough to afford
decent clothes, food and health insurance, but that didn't
leave much over for rent. Oh, to be rich again. Her ex
husband had millions. What had Herb managed to pull
out of the fire for her?

'He doesn't want to go to trial. Plus he's thinking
about getting married again.'

Felicity. Diana's hand curled into a tight ball of anger.
I was such a moron to trust her,-she thought. And I'm
going to get my revenge.


z33

'He understands that you can contest the divorce in the

UK, and though you weakened your case when you
moved out, he wants done with it. But they're pretty hard
over in the UK. His lawyers said they would be prepared
to wait us out, as you were married less than a year, you
took employment and when you moved out you didn't
contact your husband--'

'Yes. I know what I did, Mr Brillstein,' Diana said

impatiently. 'What's the offer?'

'Seven hundred and fifty.'

She ran the numbers in her head. Seven fifty. With the
lawyers' fees ... That was three twenty-five. Barely
enough to buy a one-bedroom flat somewhere decent,
and it wouldn't cover the maintenance charges. Ernie was
worth about ten million, she thought. If she refused this
settlement, though, she'd be stuck here.

Diana glanced out of her window at the pigeons
flapping round the white plastic hanger her panties were
drying on. Her dry-cleaning had overflowed out of her
tiny closet and was hanging on the back of the door, off
th end of the shelves, over the back of her chair. She
wanted to get out so much it hurt.

'Go back to him and tell him one million. Tell him if he
refuses we will put an injunction on all the property we
acquired together. I might not have got the apartment in
our joint names, but I designed that place.' She took a
deep breath. 'The table, the chairs, the antique sofas, the
portraits, the carpets... I signed for it all. Visa will have
a record of that. Tell him that unless he wants to take his
mistress home to an empty apartment, he can give me the

money. And if he refuses, file for the injunction today.'

There was a pause at the end of the line.

'If I may say so, Mrs Foxton, you should have been a
lawyer.'

She smiled to herself. 'In life you have to be tough.

Ernie always knew that. And now I'm learning.'


z34

She had to wait a day to discover that she had got the
cash. Half a million for Brillstein and his fancy offices,
and half a million for her. She signed the papers in the
office, and her marriage was over.

Diana pulled the two rings off the third finger of her
left hand and FedExed them to Ernie at Blakely's. As the
metal and diamonds slipped from her flesh, she suddenly
felt as though a chain had been unlocked.

She was on her own again, and it felt good.


To Rita's anger, she moved out.

'Do yourself a favour, amiga,' Diana said, thrusting
the cleaning brushes back into Rita's hands. 'Learn how
to make a bed.'


'What's my job?' she asked Michael one Saturday night,
eating Chinese food out of a carton as she laid out plates
for the box artwork.

He looked over briefly, his face lit by the glowing

numerals on his computer terminal.

'Whatever you make it,' he said.

Typical Michael. He had given her raises and bonuses
and professional praise, but nothing more.

Diana shrugged. So Michael didn't like her. The feeling
was definitely mutual. As long as she got hers, what the
hell did she care?

Besides, she had a friend now. Claire Bryant had
cheered her up every step of the way, and had even come
apartment hunting with her. Diana was careful not to
talk about Michael too much. It was a dead giveaway,
and xvhy let Claire know he registered with her so much?

She found a new place on Hudson, a smart enough one
bedroom with the luxury of a tiny den that she turned
into an office. She decorated the place on a budget, which
was a new experience, having no cash and no time.
Classic modernism: bare wood floors stained a dark


235

brown, a sleek cream rug, an antique bust, and a
campaign daybed. Her only other furniture was a low
slung sofa, a TV and a writing desk. It made the place
look less tiny. You might even be able to swing two cats
in it.

She invited Michael to her housewarming, but he
turned her down.

'I can't make it. Got the new launch in a month. Need

to review the distribution contracts,' he said.

'Sure.' Diana ran a hand through her glossy blond

hair. It was infuriating, the way he just brushed her off.
Not that she cared about his opinion. But the rest of the
office would be there. It was like he was snubbing her,
and who was Michael Cicero to snub her?

'But there's something I wanted to say about your
home.'

She turned to him, hopefully.

'You can get a tax break for the home office, if you
declare it.'

'Thanks,' Diana said, pointedly turning her back.
She started shopping again. She had survived on the
clothes she had managed to get Ernie to send over,
parcelling out her make-up and perfume, dressing simply.
She'd been reduced to quietly selling off half her
wardrobe in one of the discreet second-hand designer
clothes stores that proliferated in the East Village. Now,
at last, she could afford to visit Bloomingdales again.

Diana bought a pink silk Miu Miu shirtdress and wore

it to the office with a pair of sassy lavender leather
slingbacks.

Michael didn't so much as notice her.

She flung herself into her work, annoyed.


'Come and check this out,' Opie said, beckoning Michael

with one bony finger.

Cicero sighed, but got up to see what he wanted. Opie


236

was forever mouthing off about the tight code he'd just
busted, or the smooth-jag of his graphic lines. Michael
didn't understand it; he left tech stuff to his band'of
geeks. The point was to encourage the troops. He
thought Opie and Jenny Faroe were his two best
producers as far as games code went. Part of the success
of Imperial Games was the enthusiasm and passion of its
staff. Michael insisted everyone show up on time, but
that was as far as his discipline went.

His creative staff wore shorts and T-shirts with
everything from Metallica to wrestling heroes emblazoned
over them, while the business side guys wore suits mostly.
He'd thought about banning the girls from
wearing skirts above the knee, but this wasn't publishing.
It was an office full of kids, and they didn't thrive when
they were being stifled.
Diana oFoxton had taken her job as office manager
pretty seriously, he had to admit. She'd hit on exactly the
right atmosphere for them. They worked out of half a
townhouse, and Diana kept it stocked so it felt like a
home. She'd found the best hi-tech equipment at prices he
found hard to believe, but more vitally, she made sure
that each day there were fresh flowers, takeout teas and
coffees, baskets of fruit, Coke and cookies for the junk
food programmers. She put hairspray, perfume and
cologne in the bathrooms, and had takeouts and beer
delivered when the boys were working late.

Michael's staff reported to him that they actually
enjoyed coming to work.

He enjoyed it, too. It was a dreamin the making. With
each little success he felt the blood in his veins pump
faster, demanding more, yesterday! He stayed in his tiny
walkup simply because he had no time to move. Michael's
only luxuries were two or three more suits, which he
needed, because he was taking so many meetings.

He turned into the little room that overlooked the


237

street, where the computer banks were set up under a

soothing watercolour of Martha's Vineyard.

'Look at this.' Opie grinned.

He looked. It was from the new interactive classics
series. Henry V, by Shakespeare. The graphics were fluid
and exciting. It might not compete with Tomb Raider but
he thought parents would have no trouble getting their
children to learn with it.

'Pretty good,' he said. 'No, better, fantastic. You keep

it

'And maybe I'll get a weekend off?'

'Let's not get crazy,' Michael teased. 'Where's Diana?'

'She's in the front office. She's been locked in there for
an hour with some guy.'

'I see.' Cicero turned away so Opie wouldn't see the
dark shadow that crossed his face. He'd tried to get used
to Diana. Every single day, the woman turned up
wearing something guaranteed to make his blood pressure
rise. Either it was a body-hugging, light as thistledown,
sky-blue suit, or a halter-neck dress that made a
mockery of its modest neckline with the way it draped
like liquid over the tight, high curves of her butt, the soft
swell of her breasts. Even her shoes he found disturbing;
tiny little strappy things, even when they were flats, that
made him think of garter belts or the lace of her bra. Her
make-up was always subtle, but not so subtle it failed to
outline the lush fullness of her mouth, the cutting blades
of her cheekbones, or her dark, groomed eyebrows, just
shaped a touch instead of plucked to oblivion. Her hair
was never the same way twice. He wondered, from time
to time, what her next look would be. A sleek chignon, a
young, fresh ponytail, complex French braids, or a
bouncing curl under the ends that reminded him of a
shampoo commercial.

Every single day he thought of telling her not to dress
so provocatively.


z38

Every single day he realised he had no case.

Diana was wily, Michael thought. She knew just how
to keep to the letter of his executive dress code wllile
breaking the spirit. How could he complain about a
floor-length white dress with cap sleeves? But how could
he ignore the scalloped whisper of lace at the valley of her
breasts, the loving grip of the cotton on her butt and her
perfectly flat belly, and the way the bias-cut skirt
emphasised each tiny, sexy swing of her hips?

She had no meeting today. Cicero prided himself on
knowing everything about her calendar. Diana Foxton
was a major asset when it came to the formal side of
growing his company. Banks and business affairs lawyers
just loved her. He enjoyed watching her work them. And
work them she did, those long, strong calves tapering off
to her discreet shoes that always seemed to match her
skirt, he tumbling cascade of hair, that classy, unreachable,
ice-queen English voice of hers giving them the
summary of what Imperial was about.

He watched the way the men listened, utterly captivated.
Was it his growth or her accent, his products or
her eyes? The women executives were spellbound too.
They took time out from flirting with him to stare at her;
always fresh, always pulled together.

But he'd known this time would come. Diana was no
shrinking violet, Michael thought angrily, far from it. She
knew the kind of pull she exerted over men. She smiled,
she brushed back that shiny ha.ir, she dressed to emphasise
her sensational body. Sooner or.later she was gonna
bring a boyfriend to the office, and Cicero was prepared
to hate him. He was bound to be a two-faced weasel like
Ernie Foxton. Diana had the worst taste in men and he,
Michael, was not going to stand for them in his office.

He moved through the front room, ignoring the
various requests to review this and sign that. The door to


239

the office where they took meetings with investors and
analysts was shut.

He rapped on it.

'Diana?'

There was a pause. He could hear her talking in low,
urgent tones to some guy or other.

'Yes, Michael. I'm in a meeting.'

The cool accent infuriated him. Almost without thinking,
he turned the handle and barged his way in.

Diana was standing there, with her hand in the grasp
of an older man. A rich-looking guy, Cicero noted, with a
white handkerchief sticking out of his upper pocket. He
even wore a vest, despite the early fall heat. Michael
disliked him instantly.

'Can I help you with something?' Michael said, softly.
The man turned round and looked at him like he was
something he'd scraped off the sole of his shoe. 'No, I
don't think so. I had private business with Mrs Foxton.'

Michael ignored Diana's reddening face. 'Her business
is my business. I'm Michael Cicero.'

'Yes, I know who you are, sir.' He made sir come off
like an insult. 'But I'm only interested in talking to Diana
Foxton.'

Michael folded his arms, and saw, to his great
pleasure, the skinny little guy cast a wary look at his
biceps under the plain shirt.

'I think I'm done here,' he said hastily.

'I guess you are. Let me show you out,' Michael said,
evenly. Diana was pissed off, he saw, but tough. She

couldn't flirt with her latest sugar daddy on his time. 'I know the way ...'

The guy gathered up papers and fled, brushing past
Michael with a muttered 'Good day.'

Michael turned to her. Diana was in a pink smockqike
thing, with a half-sleeved, jaggedly cut pink jacket. It
picked up the warm summer highlights of corn in her


240

hair, and she had teamed it with a light single-note
perfume of roses.

She'd dressed up for that guy? He would never
understand women. The way money mattered so much to
them. Wasn't she earning enough?

Her former apartment flickered through his mind.
Well, compared to a penthouse on Central Park, her
current place probably didn't cut it. She'd worn a few of
the same clothes - in different combinations - twice or
three times. Maybe that wasn't good enough for her. She
still carried herself like a society dame, and that was what

she probably wanted.

Just like Iris:

Then he told himself that that wasn't his business.
Business wias his business.

'What was that man doing in here?' Michael snapped.
'This is my office. Not a place for you to do your private
entertaining.'

'Who do you think you are?' Diana said. She was
white-faced and her blue eyes glittered. She marched up
to him. 'I believe I told you I was in a private meeting.
You think you can just barge in on me?'

'I think I can do whatever I like. I'm the boss.'

She laughed. 'Like I haven't earned the right for fifteen
minutes alone? I work night and day for your company, boss.'

'You think you've sacrificed things for Imperial? You
don't have any idea what that even means,' Cicero said,
contemptuously.

Diana reached up and slapped him hard around the
face. For a moment, Cicero was so shocked he didn't
even react. If he had seen it coming, he would have
blocked her. He didn't permit girls to hit him. If a guy
tried that, he'd be knocked into the middle of next week.
From a woman, like Diana, it was nothing but a sting.
But the balls of her took his breath away.

He fantasised briefly about tugging her over his knee

and lifting that sexy, taunting smock and spanking her.

That was what she could really use.

'Would you mind,' he said evenly, 'telling me what you

think you're doing?'

'I'm doing what I feel like,' she snapped. 'You don't

think I've sacrificed anything for this place? Let me tell

you something. That man was a lawyer.'

Cicero blinked. 'Explain yourself.'

'Explain myself?' she said, throwing back her hair. She

looked wild to him, provocative, a challenge. He thought

about shrugging the jacket from her creamy shoulders

and ripping her thin dress straight down the middle. Of

course it didn't mean anything, I'm just fantasising about

her like I would any other pretty chick. 'You want an

explanation. How about, you've been so goddamn busy

running your damn office you didn't even notice me! I

had a life before I came here, Michael. I've been busy

trying to get back just a fraction of it. With no support

from you. I thought we could be friends; I guess I was
wr6ng.'
Diana picked up the papers and tossed them at him.

'These are my settlement papers. My lawyers just took

half a million dollars from me for making a few phone

calls.'

Michael didn't bother to pick them up. 'I'm sorry. But

it's your own fault.'
	:i

Diana gasped. 'Excuse me?'

'Certainly.' God, he could be so infuriating, staring at

her with those heavy-lashed eyes, like he knew it all, and

she was some bimbo. 'I will excuse your temper, this

once. But don't blame me for your inadequacies. You

were arrogant. You didn't go to a lawyer at the outset.

You could have gotten a better deal, but you had to wait

till the last minute. Why is that my fault?'

Diana was thrown. Sometimes she hated him. He was

so cocky. She felt her temper surge again. She wanted to
lash out, and without thinking, she drew back her a, rm
and made to hit him again.

But Michael was far too quick for her. His hand lashed
out and caught her at the wrist, holding it secure. She
struggled, but she couldn't move. In an instant he tugged
her to him, and then his hands were cupping her face,
forcing her mouth up to meet his, and his lips were on
hers, kissing her savagely.

z43


Chapter z7


Dawn broke over Rome, golden and warm, with the
promise of another blistering day to come. Felicity
Metson sighed. It was so dreary here; traipsing round the
world after darling Ernie was more taxing than it
seemed. She hoped that he would drop his plan to buy
one of the multi-million-dollar apartments set into the
two-thousand-year-old Theatre of Marcellus. She. really
couldn't care less about the endless monuments of
ancient Rome, a playground now for wild poppies and
quick little black lizards that darted around like the
tongue of Ernie's new maid. As for the Renaissance
churches with their Da Vinci sculptures and paintings by
RalShael and what have you, Felicity felt uncomfortable
in them. Such silly moralising. Why keep such art
treasures out for the plebs to gawk at? Something in her
revolted against the idea of Moses by Michelangelo, say,
in Santa Maria Maggiore, being kept there so that fat
Italian mammas and working men with their sunburned
hands and cheap suits could gawk at him after mass.
How could they possibly appreciate such refinement?
Better it go to a museum, or, preferably, be sold off.
Perhaps to her.

Felicity indulged in a small day-dream where Moses was delivered to her new townhouse which Ernie would
buy her after the wedding, in a hail of media interest and
TV cameras. Of course, he didn't have that kind of cash
just yet. Hopefully the new deal brewing with Signor
Bertaloni of Media Cinque, the Italian conglomerate,


z44

would put all that to rest. Why think small? Hadn't
Michael Eisner proved that you could get real we,alth
simply by running a company?

She rang for room service. The Hotel Consul Marcus
was Rome's newest and most luxurious haven, a few
blocks from the Colosseum and providing all amenities
to the more discerning traveller. Felicity had told Ernie
that she simply must have a separate suite.., partly so
that her beauty treatments could be applied without him
witnessing any of them, and partly so that Jung-Li, the
latest of the oriental 'maids' she had hired for her fiance,
could have unfettered access to him in the mornings. Her
success in this relationship was al/ about keeping Ernie
happy, Felicity reflected. And it suited both him and her
to pretend, that the other had no idea what was going on.

The fact that Jung-Li and all her predecessors had been
hired by" Felicity from a vastly expensive and seriously
discreet madam on the West Coast was something Ernie
need never know. Or anybody else for that matter.
Felicity paid cash and used a false name. She also used
pay phones and the good old US postal service, sending
her packages from different stations around the city once,
even, from one of the better parts of Brooklyn.

Yes, it was, objectively speaking, a bit humiliating,
Felicity thought. But Ernie didn't know she knew and nor
did anybody else. The Diana affair had tipped her off as
to what it would take to keep Ernie satisfied, and Felicity
wasn't into domination. Nor was she into social exile,
and Ernie had proved her way out. Felicity could sit on
the small part of her heart that still longed for true love,
for a soulmate. Love was a fairy tale; at best a matter of
luck. You needed to meet the right man in the right place
at the right time. The odds had beaten Felicity, and she
had never considered giving it a serious shot with her
Marine escort. It was hard to live without money. She
looked out over Rome, and congratulated herself for her


z45

honest),. Yes, her therapist had helped her understand
that you needed to be true to yourself.

There was no denying she liked her creature comforts.
If other girls wanted to be poor and romantic, that was
up to them. Felicity was a realist.

Room service materialised; a handsome waiter with a
charming accent. Felicity made sure to flash him a lot of
thigh, tanned and toned and peeking from her peach satin
negligee as she directed him to the sun-drenched balcony.
He smiled and bowed, producing Irish crystal glasses,
porcelain and silver-plated cutlery. Breakfast was a small
grapefruit, some dry Melba toast, a glass of fleshly
squeezed orange juice and a half-bottle of champagne;
Perrier-Jouet ros6. There was nothing like champagne in
the mornings, or any time of the day, really. She liked a
drop first thing, just to soften the edges.

The waiter brushed against her breasts as she handed
him a ten-thousand-lire tip. Felicity arched, very slightly,
at the deliberate pressure of his rough fingers. It had been
so long since she'd had an orgasm with a man. Ernie wood never be able to satisfy her - or any other girl, for
that matter. But she pulled back, and contented herself
with a frosty smile, dismissing the help.

Felicity knew what they said about Italian men and the
bedroom. But no half-hour thrill could possibly be
equivalent to her new diamond engagement ring, or her
fantastic wardrobe, or the summer cottage in Martha's
Vineyard that was Ernie's latest little present to her.
Felicity had been highly successful in shepherding her
charge through the divorce; a few well-placed charity
donations here, a pleasantly coordinated dinner party
there, and Mira Chen was forgotten.

Ernie laughed about the fevered imaginations of the
tabloid rags and nobody snickered - at least not to his face.

Felicity poured herself a glass of pink champagne and
toasted herself. By constantly deferring to the married


z46

ladies of New York society, and making no attempt to
outshine them, she'd done better than Diana. After ,all,
the girl was English, and didn't understand that if you
show up members of the club, you're liable to be kicked
out.

Diana had proved herself to be unworthy of the notice
of the Jodie Goodfriends of this world, Felicity thought,
picking at her sharp grapefruit and gazing out at the
scooters that roared through the cobbled Roman streets
below. The girl riders in faded denim bitsy shorts, their
bronzed, slim legs clutching the metal, wearing no
helmets. Here everybody smoked and drank and didn't
start the day without an espresso srong enough to stand
a spoon up in. Everybody ate gelati all day long and
weighed to ounces, until they had babies and suddenly
morphed into black-shawled, pudgy mammas. It was as
though "the sun made you immortal. Perhaps Diana
Foxton had thought herself immortal, disappearing from
the scene without a trace. Nobody knew where she had
dived off to. One lousy million, and she was never heard
from again.

Felicity sipped and let the icy champagne flow down
into her stomach to warm her up. Diana was not her
problem; she was nobody's problem any more. The most
pressing thing she needed to concern herself with was
making a positive impression at Ernie's little party for the
Italians. Soon she must buzz her PA to bring her the
Rolodex. Signor Emarti liked Cuban cigars; Signorina
Vitello was a baseball freak, and Felicity had obtained a
signed Mark McGwire ball just for her. She had no doubt
that Ernie and she would make the most incredible
splash.

The sunlight crept up the ancient walls, bathing the
ochre houses in vanilla light. In about an hour, she thought, Jung-Li would have finished off Ernie's 'personal
treatments' with a 'massage'. After that she woud


z47

call him as he went to work; a housekeeping call, to let

her dear fianc know how treasured he was.


'So that wraps it up then.'

Ernie stood, glancing around the small, dark-panelled

room with satisfaction. The offices of Media Cinque
were cramped in comparison with his glass and chrome
palace, but the money behind them was serious cash. He could wing it in any setting. Madison Avenue, Wall
Street or even this burgundy and mahogany old gentleman's
room, with the quiet air-conditioning failing to
remove the smell of cigar smoke and the faint whisper of
aniseed from the Sambuca bottle old man Bertaloni liked

	leave on the table when he served the coffee. It had

to

been aggravating, sure, the way the fuckers had snickered
when he asked for decaff. Nobody in the whole of the
wretched country ate low fat, or drank diet sodas or
decaff. So fuck 'em, let 'em laugh. He'd have the last one,
when Blakely's debuted with a toy division and a slice of
European TV action. He, Ernest Foxton, had already
taken the publishing house out of the dark ages, and now
it was time to spread his wings. He felt invincible.

'Si, si.' Bertaloni was giving him that tight little wop
smile, but Ernie made sure never to let his warm
expression flicker for a second. The businessmen here
were just like the mafia in all those movies; big on
respect. Bertaloni had carved out a multi-million-dollar
empire in this country with its crazy politics and lousy
lire, and the old geezer insisted on making out like a uomo rispettato. Ernie could handle that, though. He was
an expert ass-kisser when it paid for him to be one.
'Tonight we drink, we celebrate, I will meet your wife.'

Ernie thought of Felicity and hoped she had her shit
together, all the little gifts and stuff. She must do, right?
He had no doubts of her.

'Actually, she's not my wife. She's my fiancee. I'm


2.48

divorced,' he said, instantly regretting it. A dark shadow
flickered over the old man's craggy face.

'Divorce? Is not good. Famiglia is molto importafta.' 'Yeah, I agree. My wife left me, though.' Ernie tried to
look heartbroken. He grinned inwardly. 'The divorce
came through just recently, and me and my fiancee hope
to be married very soon.'

'Ah.' Bertaloni nodded. 'Wife leave, that is very sad,
Signor Foxton. But marry is good.'

'You'll meet Felicity tonight,' Ernie promised him
smoothly, 'and I'm sure you'll just love her.'

His people nodded and chatted to the Italians on their
way out of the door, and Ernie was proud of them. He
had the ability to select the right men for the job that
much was. sure. Once he got back to the States - he gave
himself a mental slap on the back - he'd announce the
new dels, poach some people for the toys division and
become an even bigger star in the entertainment business
than he already was. Ernie imagined how all the little
bastards who ran scared of him now would just scatter
into their corners. He'd be the new Donald Trump, with
Felicity at his side, going all the right places with all the
right people. And meanwhile his enemies would be
crushed. Just like Diana, that stupid hint; she'd had the
chance to enjoy all this with him and she'd blown it, big
time. And just like Michael Cicero. How sweet it had
been to pull the cand out of that baby's mouth! He
thought he was such a big man, making Ernie grovel,
trying to bully him like some-nightclub bouncer.

I crushed him like a bug, Ernie thought. Maybe when I
get back to New York I can find out what he's doing
now, and crush him some more. It was important to let
people see just what happened to boys who crossed him.


Diana didn't think about what she was doing, because
Michael didn't give her time. His mouth on hers was


z49

ruthless. A second later, his arms wrapped around her,
half-crushing her to him. He was so strong, so incredibly - big. She had never felt a man with muscles like this. His
arm was almost as big as her thigh. She felt herself
overpowered, overwhelmed, her soft breasts pressed up
against his pecs. There was a wash of heat in her lower
belly, worse than any frustrated wanting she'd felt
before. In her head, Diana knew sex was never good. But
in her warm belly, she wanted him. The downy hairs on
her arms and skin lifted, she felt her nipples, betraying
her, hardening into nubby cherries, filling with blood.
Her pussy tightened, she felt herself getting wet. She tried
to draw back, but he wasn't allowing it. Cicero's breath
was hot on her face, her neck. He was hard against her
dress. He was huge. He was so different to Ernie's. thin,
disgusting cock. He seemed a little longer than usual,
although she wasn't used to many men, but it was the
thickness of him. She half wondered if he would hurt her,
taking her. His hands were all over her bottom, stroking
and kneading it, rubbing the tender place at the small of
her back. Diana's breath quickened. She felt maddened
with wanting him.

Michael pulled back an inch, just enough to let him see

her face.

'We'll get out of here.'

His voice was low and insistent. It seemed ridiculous

even to think of protesting. He just would not permit it.

He gave her no room to breathe, no way to see straight.

'Yes,' she muttered.

Michael opened the door and walked straight out.

Opie was marching up to them again. Diana felt a sudden
panic that he might change his mind, regain his sanity,
return to work.

'We have a meeting,' Michael said, snapping at Opie

like a turtle. He backed off. When Cicero was in this
hungry-gator mode, it was best not to mess with him. He


zSo

shot Diana a look of pity. Obviously she was in deep shit
this time.

Diana kept her head bowed and followed Michael but.
She was in an agony of lust and embarrassment. She
didn't want any of her colleagues to see her flushed face,
her glittering eyes, her lips, moistened and parted. She
must look feverish. She fixed her gaze on the strong
muscles of Michael's lower back, sliding about under the
skin. Maybe she was insane. She was. She should back
out now

'Michael,' she said, softly.

A cab screeched to a halt in front of Cicero. He turned
to look at her, peeling the clothes from her skin, his gaze
stopped right between her legs. It was like a touch of
rough fingers trailing over her belly. Unable to stop
herself, she gasped.

'Get in,' he said, flatly.

She got in the cab and he piled in beside her, He leant
forward to speak to the driver and put his hand on her
knee.

'West Broadway and Hudson,' he said.


Diana stepped out of the cab and tried to look relaxed.
She'd wanted to pull herself together during the ride, but
it had been impossible. Michael had put one hand down
the small of her back and had started stroking the curve
of her behind, rhythmically, insistently. He was playing
with it like it was his toy. Sometimes she had been a little
self-conscious about her bottom, but she felt his desire,
his excitement, and it turned her on. Cicero was kneading
and squeezing while he kept up an easy banter with the
driver, discussing the disastrous season the Mets had just
had, and all she could think about was trying not to
squirm with pleasure and need.

Her panties were a thin Chiffon thong. Her behind was
bare under her skirt. Diana felt the slim scrap of nothing

that covered her start to cling to the moistness of her
groin. She bit down hard on her lip and said nothing until
the car halted and Michael's hand tugged her out of the
back.

He threw a twenty at the guy and punched in the code
for the door. There was a maintenance guy in the lobby.
Michael greeted him cheerfully, but Diana had to
swallow the groan that bubbled in the back of her throat.
Surely her condition must be obvious to this man. He
didn't seem to be staring at her, but how could he not
know? How could anybody miss it? Her whole skin was
burning. Michael turned to her.

'It's a bit of a walk. Ten floors up.'

'That's fine,' Diana managed. Her face flushed, hotly.
'I'm used to walkups.'

She deliberately started to mount the stairs. Oh man.
Why had he said that? One flight, two, she barely noticed
the gradient. Michael was still downstairs, chatting.
Great time to pass the time of day. Why not? she
thought, angrily. She reached the landing, and heard him
racitag up the stairs behind her, three, four at a time. He
caught up with her. She noticed he hadn't even broken a
sweat.

'I can't believe you said that to him.' Her eyes flashed.
'Do you always have to show off your conquests to other
men?'

'A conquest.' His dark eyes bored right through her. 'Is
that what you are? Maybe you flatter yourself, Diana. I
bring illustrators here all the time. Males and females.
He's used to it.'

Cicero opened the door and put his hand on her elbow,
marching her in.

His place was tiny and immaculate. Diana saw the
low-slung, hard-looking bed, made neat as a soldier's,
behind him. Suddenly she felt tiny, dwarfed by him.

'Maybe this isn't such a good idea,' she stammered.

e laughed. He reached out and cupped her breasts
with his hands, hefting them, as though testing th, eir
weight. A fresh rush of electric lust rocked through her
hips. She shuddered, and Michael pulled her to him.


Hz53

Chapter z8


For the first minute, Michael was careful and gentle. His
thick fingers fumbled with the buttons of her dress. He
managed to pull it from her without ripping it. He laid it
carefully across the back of a chair.

Diana moaned softly. Waiting for him to touch her
was agonising. Her knees were trembling as though they
might not be able to support her. No man had ever
touched her with such confidence and command. She
forgot that all sex was bad, that it was something women
put up with. Her body leapt to his touch, pressing
forward, but Michael was holding her back, almost
amtsed.

'Easy, girl.' The whisper of his breath was warm
against her bare neck. 'All in good time.'

He reached behind her and unhooked her bra. Her
breasts fell out, slipping warm and heavy with blood
from the mocha lace, and she heard a quick intake of
breath from him at the sight of them.

'Rose-pink. Dark rose,' he muttered.

'What?'

'The colour of your nipples. I was wondering about it.'
Cicero reached forwards and rubbed the tip of his thumb
over her left breast, not touching the swollen tip, just
circling round it.

It was more than Diana could stand. Wantonly, she
thrust herself against him. She was nude against the
cotton of his shirt. He grinned and reached between her


z54

legs, cupping her with the palm Of his hand. He could feel
the slickness of her through the scrap of her panties.,

'I want to look at you,' he told her. 'Turn around. Let me see you.'

Diana turned slowly on her heels as he kicked off his
shoes and slid out of his pants. His cock was so hard it
hurt. She was stunning; one of the rare women better
naked than dressed. Oh, damn, look at that ass. Her
stomach was flat enough to balance a champagne glass
on, her muscles just slightly defined, and it tapered out to
a firm, flaring butt, a perfect peach, rounded and high
and tight and so womanly it drove him nuts. Her breasts were soft and full and natural. There was a light dusting
of freckles on-the tops of them, like powdered sugar.
Cicero felt his resolve to tease her wane. He had to have
her. Right now. He tore off his shirt and went over to
her, his hands ranging all across her warm skin. She was
intensely responsive, but awkward. If he didn't know
she'd been married, he might have thought her a virgin.

Diana squirmed as she felt his hands grip her, the
thickness of his cock press into her back. She was
desperate for him, but the size of him made her nervous.

'Will you hurt me?' she muttered, her fingers closing
round him.

He pushed her back on the bed, hard.

'No.' His voice was fhick with lust. 'I'll go slow. At
first.'

His hands reached up and pinned her arms over her
head, and his mouth was on her again, kissing her,
pinning her under him, and her legs parted, and he
entered her gently, half an inch at a time.


'We have to get back to the office,' Diana said,
reluctantly.

She kept her head down. She had showered and


z55

dressed again, but she felt self-conscious in Michael's
presence. She had had no idea that sex could be like that.

His cock impaled her. There was no way she could
think about something else, like she had done with Ernie.
His hands were on her, his fingers rubbing the slick nub
of her through the silky downy fur even as he took her,
turning her over, licking her breasts, directing her body
for his pleasure. She had never felt so richly enjoyed. She
had come over and over again, little crashing orgasms
just teasing her, preparing her, for the way he made her
yield to him right before he came, so she was only aware
of the sweet block of pressure in her groin and pussy, the
way it built up relentlessly driving her forwards, filling
her mind totally with his cock, his chest, his strong arms,
until it exploded in a white-hot burst across her skin,
leaving her drained and panting.

She was astonished to have felt that way. She could
hardly look him in the face. Michael had tried to kiss her
as she recovered, but she felt shy and drew back from
him, going to wash. What must he think of me? she
wondered. What a slut he must think I am. Her body's
reaction was a shock, and she had stumbled to the
bathroom, revelling in the hot water, the precious few
seconds left to her to try to gather her thoughts.

My God, she thought, I'll never be able to look the
man in the face again.

'What's the problem?' Michael said to her, after he
emerged from the shower. Diana had dressed herself,
neatly buttoning up her dress as high as it would go, and
tying her hair back in a severe French pleat. She glanced
down at the coffee she'd fixed from his machine, trying to
avoid staring at the thickly muscled chest, the hard,
defined biceps. What was he really? Just a jock. I mustn't
let myself be fazed by a jock, Diana thought.

Her newfound career was important to her. At
Imperial, she'd learned she was more than a prett.y face.

z56

It surprised her that she really didn't want to jeopardise
that.

And she was scared by how totally her body had
surrendered to him. Already she could feel a slight
tightness between her legs. Almost - how ridiculous! - as
though she wanted more.

'Nothing. We're late for work,' Diana said. 'They'll be
expecting us back in the office.'

He turned his back to her and shrugged off the towel,
dressing. Diana swallowed hard. The lines from his
shoulders to the small of his back were chiselled like
some Renaissance statue in marble. His behind was flat
and totally hard. He was huge. She looked at the fresh
shirt he was pulling on and wondered if he'd had it
specially nade.

'You're right,' he said, easily. 'We'll get in a cab and
get right'back.'

She bit her lip, pouting. You're right? Was that all he
had to say? I don't want it to get weird, Diana thought,
but I do think he might have argued just a bit.

It wasn't every day a man got to go to bed with a
woman like her. Or was it? He was acting as if nothing
special had happened.

Diana tossed her head. Well, two could play at that

game.

'Good idea,' he agreed.

When the cab pulled up on West Fourth, Michael got
out and held the door open for her. Diana nodded
slightly; she could barely thank him. Lower Manhattan
had slipped past them in complete silence. Michael
seemed totally at his ease.

Diana had gazed out at the warehouses, inwardly
seething. How the hell could he be so calm? Maybe
things like that did happen to Cicero all the time. That
was his reputation.

A horrible thought occurred to her. What if she wa


z57

just another notch on the bedpost? Urgh. A lunchtime
quickie, just another conquest?

What was I thinking? she asked herself. I didn't play

hard to get. I'm worse than a girl who gives it up on the
first date. He didn't even ask me on a date. And Michael
is arrogant enough as it is.

It was no use pretending it had been nothing special for

her. Diana turned aside from Michael, her back rigid
with rejection. She blushed hotly, remembering herself
leaping in his arms, gasping and crying out, scratching at
him, drenched with sweat. But she couldn't help it. The
things he had done to her. The urgent, merciless thrusting
of his cock, the sweet pressure of his tongue, his
wandering hands.

She bit on her inner cheeks. Well, she couldn't help the

way she'd behaved then, but she could help how she
behaved now.

I'm going to be the ultimate professional, Diana
promised herself.

She leant forward.

'Furn off the radio,' she snapped. 'That music is
driving me mad.'

The cabbie jumped to attention. Just as well, Diana
thought. In this mood, nobody better mess with me.

She stepped out past Michael and marched into her

office, closing the door behind her. There were a number
of hot graphics designers on her Rolodex to call. She
picked up the phone, determined to drive Michael Cicero
and his body right out of her head.


'More champagne, sir?' the stewardess asked.

She was flirting shamelessly, but Felicity was lying

there with a Gucci traveller's blindfold wrapped around
her eyes, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was
asleep or pretending to be. The stewardesses could bat
their eyelids as much as they liked. Ernie was p.leased

z58

with her. She had thrown a terrific party for the Ities,
schmoozing the old geezers like a seasoned pro, not even
forgetting the wives. And she knew exactly when to turn
a blind eye.

'I thought the bar closed an hour ago,' Ernie said,
examining her breasts.

She thrust them forward a bit more. 'Well yes, Mr
Foxton, that's true as far as our regular first-class
passengers go.' She dropped her voice. 'For our most
special guests, we always make exceptions.'

'You can get me another glass of ros4,' Ernie agreed.
He didn't really want it, but it tickled him to get what
other people couldn't. Really, the world was just his oy
shop.

The Berta, loni deal would go through, and Blakely's
would have money to spare. Games and toys were big
business, and he didn't see why he should be stuck with
just books. The more reach you had, the more respect
you got. Airlines were just one example. They made their
profits on big business, rich travellers like him who
would happily pay outrageous prices for a seat that
flipped down all the way. Idly, he wondered whether if he
took the air hostess upstairs to the private bathroom
she'd fuck him right there, or if she'd just slip him her
hotel room number instead? Either way, it was too much
bother. He could have Jung-Li any time he liked without
having to lift a finger.

The girl was leaning over him, pouring out a thin
stream of pink champagne that filled up his crystal glass,
spitting and bubbling. Ernie reachedout and picked up
the stem in his thin fingers. Realising she was dismissed,
the woman melted away.

He sipped, allowing the chill wine to fizzle on his
tongue. Once, a long time ago, champagne had been a
treat luxurious beyond imagining. Back when he was a
teenager, Asti Spumante was about all he could manage.


259

Now it was routine, almost boring. Ernie had educated
himself on the better houses, even memorising a list of the
superlative years. Truth was, it all tasted the same to him.
But now he knew to bitch if the stuff was non-vintage, he
could say he wouldn't clean his oven with Lanson. Ernie
hated being laughed at with a passion.

The plane was banking and turning over Canada, very
close to New York. He'd called Jack Fineman with
instructions. Firstly, there was the press conference to
announce his latest triumph. But after that, Fineman was
going to update him. Apparently, there was news on
Cicero, and it included a report on his ex-wife. Ernie
didn't much care what Diana did; she was out of his hair,
and she was never coming back into the social scene.
Felicity would see to that. Besides, Diana had no serious
cash, and in America, if you didn't have money, you
weren't worth a thing. Diana would never embarrass him
any more. He didn't think Michael would, either.

But he wasn't going to underestimate the little prick.
Once I crush people, Ernie thought, they better stay
crushed. Fineman would help him see that they did.


The sun dipped behind the long row of brownstones,
flooding rich golden light through the trees outside their
windows. Diana tidied up her papers and stacked them
neatly on her desk. She had managed to bury herself in
her work all day long, calling programmers, supervising
the marketing division, writing out copy for the latest
batch of games, and running to the water cooler
whenever Michael emerged into her area. It hadn't been
as hard as she had feared. The company was blowing up,
and every day her phone lines and fax machine buzzed
off the hook. There was no time to think abOut what he'd
done to her this afternoon, no time to obsess over his flat
stomach, his brawny arms, the way his hands pressed
and squeezed every inch of her butt. But those thoughts


z6o

were returning now. As soon as the hubbub of the day
died down, Diana felt her body start to betray her.

That's OK, she told herself. I'll get out of here rig[it
away. Maybe go down to Bliss and get a massage, or pop
up to Bergdorf's for my eyebrows. Anything to get away
from him. Hurriedly she packed her papers into her
briefcase and turned to leave. Michael was blocking the
doorway.

'Can I help you with something?' Diana asked. She
was rather proud of herself. She sounded brisk and
impersonally friendly. Why let him know he had upset
her equilibrium?

'Yes, you can.'

'Of course. Just a second, I'll boot the computer up
again.'

'That's nt what I meant.' He smiled at her confidently.
'W4aat are you doing tonight?'

'Well, I'm - I'm--'

Diana stammered and cursed herself. Why couldn't she
think of something? Her mind had gone blank.

'Would you like to have dinner? I know a great place
on Bleeker Street,' he said.

Diana blushed. 'Look, Michael. I think you should
know that I don't normally do this kind of thing.' The
instant she said it she felt more awkward than ever. I
don't normally do this kind of thing. I'm not that kind of
girl. How many women had said that after panting in his
arms?

His brows lifted. 'You don't normally eat dinner? You
should. You've been looking a little skinny lately.'

'You know what I mean. I think we should lay down
some ground rules.'

'Yeah, I'm sure you do.' He gave her a wink. A wink!
'We'll do that, OK? At dinner.'

'I can't.' Be firm, Diana told herself. 'I need to go home
and have a shower and change. I'm so sticky.'
'Mmm, I know you are,' Michael said, his gaze
lingering on her skin. 'So I'll pick you up at eight.'

Diana flushed scarlet. 'I don't know ... I think ...'
'You think too much,' he said, and walked out.

z6z


Chapter 29


'Michael, I have a suggestion to make,' Diana said.

She brushed her long, dark hair behind her shoulders
and regarded him over the edge of her bone-china cup of
English tea. Since they'd started dating, Diana had felt
confident enough to go back to her natural colour. At
first it was a shock, sitting in Oribe's gilt-decorated salon,
and watching the bright platinum soften and cool
through red right down to a rich chestnut.

'You hate eet, no?' her colourist asked, dismayed.
'No.' Diana could hardly take her eyes from her
reflection. 'It's natural, it suits my skin. I look five years
younger.'

'Well, eel you are happy.' The woman sniffed. In her
opinion everybody should be blonde. But Mrs Foxton
had refused to be swayed. Didn't she read the gossip
columns? Conchita wasn't discreet, but even she shrank
from pointing out that Felicity Metson, the new lady in
Ernest Foxton's life, was standard-issue New York:
younger, blonder and skinnier than Diana. Maybe she
was depressed, now the divorce was finalised, and
Felicity was flashing that six-carat rock in front of
whatever camera happened to be pointed her way.

But that would not explain why, whenever her client came in for a treatment, she was glowing, her skin
shining, her eyes bright. Whatever Diana had in the way
of beauty treatments, they must be lmry expensive,
Conchita mused, wondering about the size of the settlement.

If Conchita could have seen Diana's beauty secret,
sitting across from her in the cramped bistro, she would
have been amazed.

Michael Cicero was gulping coffee and drinking in
Diana at the same time. Even though she was with him
every night and he reached for her in the morning, he
couldn't get enough of her. It was like trying to hold a
bubble in a cage; he put up the bars of his expectations
and she floated past them.

They were having breakfast together outside his apartment.
He wore a black suit, tailor-made for him by
Gieves & Hawkes in England. Since Imperial's games
had started selling, he could afford it. Cicero detested
luxury for its own sake, but he liked looking professional.
Think Sicilian, dress British. His shirts, shoes and
suits were always pristine. A discreet pair of plain gold
cuff links glinted in the morning light.

Michael never thought about his appearance, except to
require that it be smart. Maybe that was one of the
reasons he looked so damn good.

Diana was another matter altogether, though, and it
worried him. As Imperial expanded, so had her job. She
was his right-hand woman and he paid her commensurately.

Looking at her, he sometimes thought every cent must
go on clothes.

Michael was no fashion guru, but he knew about cost.
And Diana's things cost plenty. Almost every day, as
though to make up for months of relative poverty, she
showed up at work in a brand-new outfit. Chanel suits.
Prada handbags. Manolo Blahnik shoes. Maybe it was
important for all the meetings he sent her to, as
Imperial's public face.

But Cicero didn't know. There was still that touch of
the pampered princess about Diana. Still, she worked
hard, and it was her own money.


z64

Was that why they fought so much? He was doing
good, but not that good. Michael regarded Diana. Was
she going to turn round and ask him to keep her in the
style to which Ernie had gotten her accustomed?

The odd nice suit did not a mogul make. Michael
recalled Iris. When his bonus went out the door so did
she. He hated gold-diggers with a passion.

But he could not hate Diana. She just wouldn't let him.
All his fighting to stay neutral and not hit on her, what
had it meant? Just about nothing, when he thought he
was faced with a lover of hers.

Michael's groin had refused to be silenced that day.
And it was a good thing. If he hadn't kissed her and
taken her home, he might never have known what it felt
like to reallv master a woman; not just an easy lay, the
latest of the long string of girls he didn't know, or girls he
quite liked, some woman he had selected from all the
girls flinging themselves at him because he needed a piece
of ass. Diana, he had dreamed of. Thought about. Been
distracted by.

She fascinated him. And he admired the way she had
adapted to working for a living.

But, Cicero told himself, it was nothing more than
that.

How could he fall for an uptown girl like Diana? She
sat opposite him, in a delicate pink shift dress worked
with tiny yellow daisie embroidered over the hem, a
sharp matching jacket that cut under her full breasts and
made the whole thing just about work friendly. He had
no idea who the designer was. Some logo was emblazoned
over the tiny buttons. D&G, Dolce & Gabanna. It
was another outfit that looked sensational and must have
cost.., well, best not to guess about that.

He reminded himself she had never asked him for
anything. But was that because she thought of him as her
boss, rather than her boyfriend?


z65

Their relationship had never been defined. They
worked together and fucked like rabbits. Every time he
promised himself he would scale it down, his resolve
evaporated when he touched her, or saw her, or spoke to
her. Maybe she'd be screaming at some delivery company
that was late with a package, and Cicero would suddenly
look at her mouth and imagine it sliding over his skin. Or
maybe she would be bending over her desk, studying
cover copy, and that glorious ass would be sticking out in
his face, round and firm, flaring out from her tiny waist.
The effect was the same. His heart started to race, his
groin stirred, he looked at her and had to have her. Sure,
he liked Diana and she liked him, but they were too

different. They were just friends who had sex.
Michael told himself this daily.

'I'm listening to any suggestions you have,' he said
easily. 'I always do. You're pretty bright, for a foreigner.'

Diana raised one neatly plucked brow. 'That's a laugh.
In England, you need a satchel and a lunch box to go to
school. In America they issue bullet-proof vests at the
door.'

'I know you're big on gun control, but that's not the
constitution. Anyway, I'm sure you didn't drag me out
here to have a political discussion,' he said, dryly.

'No.' She looked down and blushed, and he remembered
the flushing of her skin under him this morning, the
red patches over her breasts, the long red lines where he
had slowly raked his nails across her belly. Diana writhed
and gasped more than any other woman he had ever
known. They were hot together. Yet when she left his

bed, she was more reserved than ever.

She's fascinating. She's infuriating.

'I wanted to suggest that we should be careful. We
leave the office together too often. We shouldn't arrive in
the same car.'


z66

Michael swallowed a sip of the black, thick espresso
and masked his disquiet. Diana didn't want to be seen
with him.

'You think people will talk?'

'Yes, I think so,' she said, nodding. Her brown hair he
had told her he wanted her to go natural - suited those
sharp cheekbones, those full, pouting lips. Her creamy
skin looked warmer, her eyes sparkled. 'It's not businesslike.
You don't want people thinking you gave me my job
just because ...'

She let the sentence hang in the air.

'Just because we sleep together,' Michael said. 'That's
a good idea.'

Diana smiled at him and lifted her glass of freshly
squeezed orange juice. She had to draw on all her
reserves with Michael to keep from losing her soul. She
admired him, and she wanted him and sometimes, when
she looked across at him while he was sleeping, she
caught herself having deeper feelings. But she ignored
them, because he didn't let her get to him.

Diana had been rejected once before. She wasn't going
to take any chances now. Michael refused to open up to
her. She wanted to end it, but she couldn't. He aroused
her like she had never known.

Sex was no longer frustrating and enervating. This
time, when she was turned on, she was satisfied. If that
was the word for it ... squirming and whimpering,
clutching at Michael as he pounded into her, the
thickness of his cock driving all caution away. It was
hard to make barriers when she kept remembering the
way his thumbs rubbed gently back and forth across her
nipples, his palms slipped down to cradle her ass and
caress her pussy, softly, until she was twisting in his
hands, begging him to fuck her again. And Michael
Cicero was not a pretty boy, With the shirt and suit off,
the bull-like chest was fully revealed, the thickness of his


z67

biceps, the dark, wiry hair that covered his chest and his
arms. The face that stared down at her, kissing her hard
as his hands pinned her arms over her head, teasing her,
keeping her motionless, was a man's face, broken-nosed,
dark-eyed, thick black lashes, close-cropped black hair.
Ernie's skinny frame seemed even more unattractive and .. Diana flinched in distaste at the thought of his cock.

Maybe it was true that size didn't matter.., but she

didn't think so.

It wasn't about length, it was about thickness. How

long Michael was she really didn't know ... about
average, maybe. What had her biting her lips to stop from crying out was the solid thickness of him, that
stubby, wide, sweet plunging, relentless flesh that was so
merciless in seeking out her pleasure. Cicero was a
master. Outside the bedroom, Diana thought she could
handle him, but inside the bedroom, his word was law.
Michael wasn't a sensitive lover. He didn't go for poetry
and long candlelit, soul-baring dinners. They rarely got
to .dessert before his hand was rising up her knee and he
was shoving her into a cab, touching her breast under her
jacket, firing her blood and making her breath come out
in ragged gasps. He pinned her down across the bed, a
table, his knees. He held her locked in place with his
body, one hand holding down both her arms with utter
ease as the other roamed across her body, tormenting
her. And when he finally agreed to fuck her, Michael
knew how to pace it, driving he, forcing her up to the
brink, tilting her body so his cock pressed against that
soft, melting spot on her inner walls that forced her to
yield, the pleasure exploding inside her like a firework, a
white-hot, blinding shower of stars.

But he was so stern and disapproving of her.

She tried a million different outfits, and none of them
seemed to please him. Sometimes Diana felt they were


z68

circling each other like wolves about to strike, not sure
whether to mate or fight.

She needed to know how he felt. She had hoped le
would tell her she was being dumb, that he wanted to be
seen with her.

No such luck. Cicero accepted what she was saying
without hesitation. Diana was sure he didn't love her.

'Well, that's settled.' She smiled as brightly as.she

could. 'I'll go first; I know you like your breakfast.'
'Yeah, see you in the office. And maybe tonight.'
'Maybe,' Diana agreed.

She lowered her glass, stood and walked out. She
didn't let the tears prickle in her eyes until she was safely
out on the sidewalk.

She is one cold woman, Michael thought, grimly.
He's made of stone, Diana said to herself.


After that, they arrived at the office separately. The irony
was that once the office doors had shut behind them, they
got on famously, enjoying each other's ambition and
dynamism.

Michael drew up business plans and made presentations
to software houses.

Diana listened to his vision and increased her hiring. It
was amazing to her that he could found a computer
games company when heknew nothing about computers.
But Michael's passion was infectious. Book industry
insiders who knew him recommended him to colleagues
in the tech market. It usually only took one meeting, with
Michael's business savvy and Diana's poise, for the fishes
to bite.

'I don't know code from crack, but I do know kids,'
Michael explained. 'If we hire the right people, we can
execute the vision. Is David Geffen a musician? Is Donald
Trump an architect? Hell no. You don't need to be. You'


z69

need to hire the right people and come up with the right
numbers.'

'But in that case we might as well be selling soap,'
Diana protested.

'We might, but I don't want to sell soap. You can work

to make money or you can work at your dream. But if
you choose to work for the dream, you'll make more
money.'

'I guess so.'

'People are interested, aren't they?' Michael demanded.

She couldn't deny it. 'Very.'

'Imperial is going places. Trust me. I know about these
things.'

Stung by his arrogance, she couldn't help but needle

him. 'You're only thirty-one Michael, and so far you

have one aborted book house to your credit.'

'I know about these things,' Michael said simply,
shrugging.

Diana didn't press the point. The trouble was, she
believed him.

z7o


Chapter 3o


'Interesting,' Ernie said.

He steepled his fingers, which he thought made him
look statesmanlike. Jack Fineman's cool, air-conditioned
office looked out over Gramercy Park. Ernie gazed
unseeing at the nannies walking their charges and the
chess-players hustling the rubes, and considered he
information, his lawyer had dug up.

'So how much exactly would you say Cicero was
worth?' o

A nanny in jeans and a soft cashmere sweater .strolled
by, pushing a double stroller. So many New York wives
were on fertility treatments now that you saw twins and
triplets everywhere. Ernie disliked kids. He turned back
to Fineman, awaiting his answer.

'Imperial's just a small company.'

Fineman shuffled through his papers. Ernie was a
seedy operator, no doubt about it. Fineman's firm wasn't
used to hiring private eye to trail people, as though Ernie
were some suburban wronged wife with a grudge. But
they paid out the big bucks, and clients with egos were
always capricious. The lawyer knew that in this matter
he had to pander to his client. 'They have an independent
distribution deal, plus they write games for some of the
bigger houses. But they've also been talking to a lot of
banks, even investment banks. I'd say they're gearing up
to make an offering on Wall Street. Go public, get serious
capitalisation.'

Ernie shifted. 'You didn't answer my question, mate."


z7,

'I'm getting there.' Fineman smiled broadly. 'Right
now he might be taking home a hundred, a hundred and
fifty a year. He literally takes money from sales and pays
off overheads, wages, health plans, etc. But he owns the
company one hundred per cent. Any IPO would be based
on potential, not the small numbers they're managing
right now as a boutique firm. They have a unique product
in a small corner of the market, educational software.
Kids like learning with their games. Word of mouth is
excellent. I think an IPO would be a big success7

'So if they go public, how much does he get?' Ernie
frowned slightly. He wasn't interested in background, just answers.

'The sky's the limit. Conservatively, twenty .million

dollars. Maybe more.'

Twenty million?

Ernie felt his stomach drop. That would put the little
bastard up there with him. He had a lot of toys - the
chauffeur on permanent call, the charter planes, the
chopper rides - but they were company perks. He was
employed, and Michael Cicero owned his product. He
glanced out over the park again as though he were totally
unconcerned.

'Of course, then he loses control of the company.'
'Not necessarily. He doesn't have to float it all. He
could sell off a forty-nine per cent share, or even less than
that.'

'I don't like the thought of a rival taking that slice of
the market,' Ernie said calmly. 'You know we have an
interest in games, too.'

Fineman pushed his spectacles up his nose. 'Then I can
only suggest you bring your division to the Street's
attention, Mr Foxton. At the moment, his product is
unique. And the market loves uniqueness.'

'Right,' Ernie said, thoughtfully. 'I better be going.'


z7z

Fineman stood and showed his client out. He wondered
how Cicero would take this. They had screwed him
over once. It seemed harsh to do it twice, but he,
business was business.


Opie led the applause and then the dive for the beer.

'Great speech, boss.' He grinned up at Michael cheekily.
'Inspiring, huh? Maybe we should get out some brass

eagles and send the legions into battle?'

There was warm laughter.

The staff were crammed into the upstairs room at the
White Horse Tavern, Greenwich Village's answer to an
English pub, which Michael had hired out for the office
party. There was a keg of beer and three different wines,
and the trogps were getting rowdy. Not that he minded.

The Alpha Series of games had recently been launched
on the market. After months of code-crunching, rushing
the printers and browbeating the independent distribution
system, the first Imperial games had finally landed in
the stores. Opie had turned to web design and run up a
site for direct sales, too, while Diana negotiated shipping
contracts with UPS.

The reviewers just loved them. Even the commercial
gaming mags had got into the act. Around the room were
hung, courtesy of Diana, large blow-up posters of the
more notable reviews. PC World screamed 'Revolutionary'. Gamer said 'Exciting and Addictive'. But the most
prominent place was reserved for the tiny inch-long slot
they'd got in Time magazine that called them, 'The best
reason for moms to love a mouse in the house'. Below the
brief rave they had printed the website address. And after
that, there had been no stopping Imperial. The factory
could not keep up with demand. They were limiting the
units per store, per region, per customer, which made
them must-haves, creating a delicious, sexy little consumer
buzz.


z73

'Enjoy yourselves, you deserve it,' Michael told them.
He looked round at his troops. 'I'd tell you to give
yourselves a week off, but we need the product.'

'Maybe we can have a week off when we die,' Mary
Castellano, the new PR girl, suggested.

'Possible, but I doubt it.' Michael grinned. He picked
up a glass of champagne somebody shoved at him and
motioned to the DJ to start the music.

Michael moved through his staff, pressing hands,
kissing cheeks and congratulating everybody. He had the
whole office here, right down to the kid who restocked
the water coolers and photocopier cartridges. It was
important for people to feel that they shared in the stellar
success of this thing. Next week he would ask more of
them and more still the week after that. Everybody
needed to be pumped to put in the same kind of hours he
did himself. He'd suggested to Diana that she move some
beds into the free rooms upstairs so people could shower
and sleep there if they wanted to. But she'd vetoed it,
firmly. She said people worked better when they had a
life.

He wasn't so sure. Work was his life.

He noticed Diana wasn't dancing and looked round for
her. There she was, leaning against the back wall in some
kind of suit. It was hard to tell the colour under the
flashing disco strobes, but it was bound to be something
subtle, something tasteful, well cut and extremely expensive.
The staff had all been given raises as soon as the
cash started flowing in. Diana was his number two, and
her raise had been the largest.

She had wasted no time, either, he thought, critically.
She had found a new apartment, a beautiful twelfth-floor
duplex in a building overlooking the river. She changed
her shoes each day and floated into the office in a cloud
of some vitally expensive scent. It was almost the same as


274

when Michael first knew her In fact, now she looked
even better.

The excitement of the job gave a charge to her skill,
put a glittering gleam in her eye. Her beauty was electric.
Maybe he was jealous. The smartly cut suits that spanned
her small waist and emphasised the flare of her breasts
and her awesome butt, the colours that seemed so right,
so elegant, the heels that gave a lift to the sexy curve of
her calf ... men noticed her. Even twenty-something
puppies and teenagers. From the old weather-worn men
on the construction sites outside to the harassed traffic
cops, they stopped what they were doing to drool when
Diana walked past. Even her soft make-up seemed
unnecessary to him. She was so stunning. Her hourgiass
figure and, upple, sexy sway would make a statue pant.
And the way she dressed only made it worse. She was a
torture to" Michael. Even when she was going out with
him, she seemed unattainable. To make love to her was
barely to scratch the surface of his desire. She was like a
lake which, every time you drank from it, made you
thirstier.

Did she really need to put on such a softly brushed,
melted-butter, just over the knee Prada suit for a night at
the Tavern? Did she have to have her rich brown hair
gleaming like that? She looked like a princess, not an
executive. But there was nothing he could complain
about. Each individual thing she wore was appropriate. It
was the overall effect that took his breath away.

He walked up to her and watched as those cool English
eyes fixed on him.

'Not dancing?' Michael asked. He breathed in her
scent. It was light and fresh today. Sometimes she was
rich and musky, or warm and wooded. But today she
smelled cleanly of meadow flowers and new-mown grass.
It was good, but not as good as the woman smell of her,
the personal scent of her soft clean skin. That was hdw he


2-75

liked her best; naked, in the shower, with nothing to
decorate, nothing to hide, the fantastic body. Her breasts
sluicing with water, the tiny rivulets that hung on the
peaks of her rose-pink nipples. Her flat belly with the
small button he loved to trace with the tip of his tongue,
teasing her, circling till she was hot and begging. And for
an ass man like himself, the sensational flare of her hips,
the rock-hard jutting curve of her butt, which walking all
over Manhattan kept firmer than any personal trainer
ever could. Desire rose in him. He wanted her more, he
felt himself getting hard. Again. He'd thought this
morning would have drained him for days, but the sight
of her buttoned-up, three-quarter-length jacket was
enough to wake him from the dead. She was so l.adylike,
so correct. But he knew how he could make her leap. He
wanted to try again. Each day was a new challenge, to
drive her to places she had never been.

Diana smiled slightly. 'I don't like disco.' She nodded
at the Time review. 'Looks good, huh?'

'It does.' He agreed at once. It was her triumph. Mary
Castellano had arranged the interview, but Diana had
wowed the journalist, taking him out for a meal that had
wiped out a week's petty cash, at Lutece, and dazzling
him with her elegance and poise. In a masterstroke of
contrast, she'd brought Opie along too. The gawky
young programmer and the cold English director fascinated
the writer. Diana talked about Imperial's educational
philosophy, and Opie blithered on about tight code
and graphics scroll and other things the journalist didn't
understand. It was alchemy and exciting, and he'd
actually sold his commissioning editor on running a tiny
plug. As a result, their website was appearing in homes
and stores right across the country. 'You did good.'

Diana frowned slightly. She did good, huh? Michael
was a sexist, patronising pig. She had made his damn


z76

company with that article. He should be on his knees
thanking her.

'Glad you think so.'

He noted the tone immediately. 'Don't get snappy with

me. I recognise your contribution.'

'Big of you,' Diana said.

They glared at each other, each thinking the other was
impossible.

'I'm a little tired, to be honest.' Diana turned her head,
and he caught a glimpse of the new diamond studs
flashing in her creamy earlobes. 'I think I might go
home.'

'Fine,' Michael said, coldly. 'Whatever you like. Are
we still on for dinner?'

'Why woqldn't we be?'

'I'll pick you up at eight,' he said.


She stared at herself in the mirror, undecided. What was
she today? Was she strappy, sassy, pale-pink Miu Miu
shot with lilac and silver, almost a hippyish, short little
baby-doll thing? Or was she classic English rose, her rosy
cheeks and nut-brown hair set off by a figure-hugging
velvet sheath in dark green, with a rabbit-fur trim at the
collar and cuffs? The sheath fell to the floor, but it was
almost more revealing than the mini-skirted dress.
Michael had annoyed he[ today. Always the stern boss,
always the workaholic. She had put in a long day with
little sleep last night, and because she didn't feel like
chugging down beer in some American pub he was going
to give her grief? Michael expected her to be on twenty
four hours a day. She had to make it through a night of
energetic love-making - well, nobody forced her, but his
body gave her little choice - then get up at six, shower,
dress like the businesswoman she was becoming, get into
the office, put in a long day, take work home, go out on a
date, and do the whole thing again the next day. Michael '

z77


was professional inside the office, but stern and forbidding.
She always felt like she was doing something
wrong. Despite her success, maybe he still held her
background against her. He seemed so much friendlier
around Mary Castellano and Opie and the other staff.

And the way she dressed. It was as though she could
never please him. Diana was at her wits' end to discover
the outfit that would get a compliment from Michael.
Now they were dating, she had thought he might unbend.
Her suits got tighter and costlier, finding just the right
blouse or pair of hose could take a-whole Saturday, and
yet he never said anything. It was annoying. Other guys
seemed to like how she looked. But if Michael was not
kissing her, she would never know he found her
attractive.

Diana decided on the pink. Drastic measures were
called for. She would shock him out of his goddamn
complacency. She put the green sheath back in the walk
in closet and reached for the pink. Classic was failing
with Michael, and anyway, the really stylish girl always
nixed up her fashion. Guys needed to be challenged.
They liked variety; Ernie had shown her that. So the trick
was to be as many women as they could handle.

The silky scrappy little dress slithered on over her
strapless bra, an amazing feat of engineering considering
the over-spilling, creamy flesh it had to contain. It hugged
her waist and bottom like a second skin, a luminous fish
scale skin, sparkling in rainbow colours. A fluted hem
followed the bias-cut of the skirt which stopped in a froth
just above her slim knees and nicely turned calves. With a
dress like this there were only Manolos, and she reached
for her new yellow leather pair along with the gold,
Versace sequined clutch purse. A necklace of pink cut
glass looped round the freckled hollow of her throat and
she shook her hair loose from its French braid, letting it
hang shining and undressed over her shoulders. The effect

z78

was sensational. To prevent tOO many whistles, Diana
reached for her latest toy, a three-quarter-length, sixties
style coat in white leather by Stella McCartney. It had bi
oversized buttons and looked like something Mary Quant
might have made. The girl in the mirror was all curves and
legs and flashes of pink and gold and white. Diana smiled,
flashing her perfect pearly teeth. If this little number didn't
knock Michael out, nothing was going to.

It really shouldn't have to be this much of an effort, but
she was up to it, 5Diana thought. Day by day, she was
falling more in love with him. He blazed through life
like a stallion, thick-bodied, powerful, reckless and single
minded. She loved to see how the guEs in the office leaped
around him. The women pressed closer and closer each
day. She thought they were only deterred from outright
pursuit by the thought of being fired and banished from
his presence. Everything female just loved to flirt with
him. Fifty and matronly, thirteen and menarchal, it didn't
matter. Married, single, anything short of an actual nun
just loved to bat her eyelids at him. Even old ladies
would stare in the street. Despite his roughness and his
bluntness he was a natural leader. He was everything her
ex-husband hadn't been. And he was a dream to touch.
All the fighting stopped when she got him into bed and
she could no longer be cool around him. It was hard
trying to keep that up, to match his reserve, even when
they were fully clothed. Diana thought she would expire
of shame if he knew how obsessed with him she had
become, while he was still parcell-ing out the compliments
like rations on a battlefield.

The doorbell rang and she hurriedly spritzed herself
with Hermes, 24 rue Faubourg. It pitched itself as a
sunny day in Paris, and for him, that was what Diana
longed to be.

'Coming,' she said.

z79


Chapter 3 I


Michael just stared.

God, she was something else. Young, vibrant and all
body. It didn't matter what your personal tastes were,
Diana gave you something to drool over. Like breasts?
He'd known guys obsessed with breasts who would have
followed Diana around like parched dogs with their
tongues on the floor. If only they could see what they
looked like when you peeled off the shimmery dress and
the lacy brassiere, they'd propose on the spot. Like a
small waist? He could almost fit his hands around
Diana's. And her butt was the stuff of poetry. In that
d.ress, you just didn't know where to look first. Would his
eye trail lovingly up the sexy curved calves and toned
thighs that seemed to stretch up like a skyscraper? Or
would it burrow into the small hint of warm, freckled
cleavage, or try to fix on the smooth curves of her ass
under the fluted flickering hem of her dress? She had no
make-up on other than a hint of peach lip-gloss, and she
looked like a sixties model - except that she didn't
resemble a park railing but had urves like Raquel Welch.
He wondered how those strappy bits of canary nothing
that threw out her ass and aligned her whole body in that
sensational way could bear the weight. It was a mystery a
man would never understand.

She twirled for him, and the white leather coat and
curly hem bobbed in the warm light of the candles. Her
place was beautifully decorated in the kind of quiet way


z8o

that society women were always overpaying their decorators
in order to emulate. Usually fruitlessly. Diana had
achieved it probably without effort. He was a man, and
couldn't be bothered with decor, but the neatness and
rightness of her colour scheme took his eye. It was a soft
scheme in understated tones of palest yellow and cream;
a perfect antidote to the boring all-white or all-beige
minimalism you saw everywhere in New York. Her paint
job seemed to Michael to be sunny and relaxing. Though
she couldn't stock it with the kind of pieces he'd seen at
Ernie's joint, she still managed to make you feel like the
place had been in her family for a hundred years, instead of being a luxury development put up in the nineties. And

still, she'd decided to go out dressed like this.

'What do' you think?' she asked.

He tho.ught he'd need his karate tonight. Kicking the

crap out of all the lowlifes who would approach her.
'Not bad,' Michael said.

Diana smiled to stop her face from falling. Damn the
man. What was he, made of stone?

'I booked a spot at Balthazar's,' he said, after a pause.
'Let's go.' He offered her his arm and she took it. 'Maybe
we can avoid shop-talk tonight.'


'But I don't know what you mean by inadequate,' Diana
said sharply. They were Sitting at one of the nicer tables
in the ultra-hip restaurant, eating French cuisine that
really wasn't bad for New York, and fighting bitterly.
Diana pushed her rocket and goat's cheese salad around
on her plate and thought how aggravating Michael was.
She'd just finished the office decor and now he was telling
her it was inadequate?

'I mean in terms of size. We're going to need to
expand.'

'Why don't we wait and see what our sell-through is'

like,' Diana said, spearing her salad like she had a
personal grudge against it.

Michael regarded her. Great, now she was going to tell

him his business. It wasn't enough that he had to deal
with all the waiters staring at his date. He swore guys
were getting up and going to the bathroom like women
just so they could get a shot at trying to look down the
front of her dress. Diana was eye candy, and they just
couldn't get enough. She irritated him and fascinated
him, and he wanted her badly. He wanted to punch out
the lights of any man who even looked at her. And he
wanted to finish up his meal so he could get her the hell
home. Into bed.

'I'm going down to Wall Street tomorrow. I'd like you

to come with me.'

'What for?'

'An exploratory meeting at Goldman Sachs. This is
confidential, by the way.'

Diana felt her annoyance blossom into anger. Confidential?
'What, you think I'm some ditzy girl who's just

going to tell all the other secretaries by the water cooler?'

'I'm just making sure.'

'Making sure of what? That I have a brain in my head

even though I have a pair of breasts?'

Cicero stared at her. 'What are you now, some kind of
feminist?'

'I love the way you say that like it equals "moron",'

Diana shot back. 'Maybe I am a feminist. I'm enough of a
feminist to know that you talking down to me is getting
tiring.'

Michael crunched into his roast beef with walnuts and

took a large swallow of red wine. Maybe it would relax

him. It didn't much.

'Could you be a little louder, babe? I think maybe a

table on the next block missed you hectoring me. I hate it

when women get strident.'


2.82.

'And I hate it when men get smug.'

'I'm not talking to you as a woman, Diana, OK? I'm
talking to you as a director of Imperial. This is business.'

Diana frowned. That was it; she'd had enough. She
loved Michael, but if he didn't love her back there was
zero point in sitting here and being insulted. She had a
good thing going with him business-wise. Why jeopardise
both relationships?

The sensible little voice in her head told her it was time
to bail out. There was no husband to pay her bills if
Michael gave her the boot.

'If it's business,' she said coldly, 'it belongs in the
office. Which is where our relationship belongs - in the
office. OK?'

'Fine with me,' Michael spat.

Diana shatched up the bill. 'As this isn't a date any
more, I'll get it. I can write it off against tax.'

She turned on one of the itsy-bitsy heels and strode out,
away from him, and every guy's eyes followed her out.

Michael forced himself to sit there and finish his meal.
Deliberately, he took his time with the wine and the
coffee. He had just been dumped in public in front of the
whole room. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.


'Your cash flow's good, but you're going to need some
serious numbers to finance an expansion. An IPO could
do that for yon.'

Diana leaned forward over the mahogany table in the
Goldman Sachs conference room. A posse of hip young
number-crunchers, most of them men, and a slightly
older guy, Richard Demotta, had done a tap-dance for
Michael for the last half-hour. The dollar amounts they
kept throwing out were so large they seemed like long
distance telephone numbers with a few zeros attached.
And yet he still didn't seem to be sold. The stubborn
bastard.


.83

Diana had spent yesterday night crying herself to sleep
and she was resolved it wasn't going to happen again.
This morning, she'd risen and selected the best suit she
owned - a Vera Wang champagne-coloured skirt that
hovered on the knee, and a jacket with sassy three
quarter-length sleeves, teamed with Charles Jourdan
pumps and good pearls. Add a simple cream silk blouse
and a little make-up and she seemed to have walked right
off the cover of Forbes.

Michael's eyes flickered across her body when she got
into the office, but he was all efficiency and respect.
Somehow it was even worse than his treatment of her last
night.

Diana told herself that was OK. He was a good boss.
Everything else was a momentary lapse, a spell of
adolescent foolishness that would now be behind them.

'But say we do take the company public,' she said,
boldly.

The eyes of the M&A specialists flicked across to her.
They would ignore a woman here if they could, she
knew. Diana wasn't about to give them that chance. She
was a director of this company, and she would start out
as she meant to go on.

'What are the chances that Mr Cicero would lose
control? And how long would our investors wait for a
return on their investments? What profits would we need
to post, and how soon, before they started dumping us?'

throat.Eyebr�ws were raised. Then Demotta cleared his

'If I may address your concerns, Mrs Foxton,' he

began.

Diana held up one manicured hand. 'Ms Verity. Diana

Verity. I go by my maiden name.'

She caught Michael's sharp look of annoyed surprise

and grinned to herself. When I was a kept woman, Diana
thought, I hated anything feminist. But now I'm doing


z84

well for myself it's rather - Well - she searched for the
word. What was it exactly?

Fun. That was it. Yes, she was actually having furl.
'Certainly, Ms Verity,' Demotta agreed smoothly, and
started to outline the risks. This time he included her in
what he was saying.


Ernie chewed down on his cigar and blew out a long, thin
stream of smoke.

Lunch at the Voyager Club was something he always
enjoyed. It was one of Wall Street's oldest clubs and the
members were very old money indeed. Bankers, shipping
magnates, select judges and landowners all rubbed
shoulders and networked here in a subtle fashion. The
only women they let through the door wore short black
skirts and' white aprons as they served the drinks.
Members' wives could not accompany their husbands
further than the lobby. The Voyager had resisted every
attempt to bring it into the twentieth century. Ernie
fondly hoped to be made a member some day soon. Every
time he got a crony to put up his name he was
blackballed. But Ernie had no shame. He wanted in and
he was prepared to wait.

His host, Chester Bradfield III, nodded and smiled and
thought what an insufferable little man his client was. It
was common knowledge around the club that Foxton
was banging on the doors to be let in. He'd go fishing for
rainbow trout in the Hudson before that happened. Still,
he liked to invite Foxton here for drinks, to romance the
limey jerk and make him feel comfortable. Foxton's stock
was on the rise as Blakely's cut back costs. His venture
with the Italians had been well received. Wall Street was
always on the look-out for a new Ted Turner or Richard
Branson. He didn't think Ernie Foxton was it, but
Bradfield hadn't gotten his Park Avenue town house and
estate in Dutchess County by burning his bridges.


z85

Foxton and his lawyers were a new client of Bradfield

and Smith, the investment banking firm which he had the
pleasure of chairing. Ernie seemed eager to acquire new
companies, and Bradfield loved nothing better than
hostile takeovers. They were great for business, so
refreshingly eighties. In exchange for his custom, who
wouldn't stand Ernie Foxton roast beef, port and Stilton
once in a while, and give him the snippets of information
he seemed to lust after so much?

'I spoke with Jack Fineman,' Chester said. Fineman

was a good lawyer, too discreet to complain about the
client he was saddled with. 'He said you were interested
in the progress of Imperial Games?'

Ernie leant forward in his seat. 'Oh, yeah. I am. You

got anything to tell me?'

'Nothing important. But they seem to be talking to

people about an IPO.'

So it was happening. Ernie felt a rush of adrenaline

that made him almost light-headed. 'And what do you

thirk about that?'

'Only that you'd be advised to buy a piece of the stock

once they do sell.' Bradfield knew Foxton loathed the
man who ran the two-bit little games company, and he
enjoyed needling him. 'It's a small outfit, but well
fancied. Into e-business. Could do well.'

Ernie forced his body to relax. 'Maybe I will. What

exactly makes this firm so special, though? Our new

games outfit's doing OK.'

'I agree, very respectably. But you make games. Shoot

'em ups, or whatever they call them. Michael Cicero,

that's the name, I.think--'

'It is.'

'Smart kid. Going places. Buzz on him. Anyway, he

makes educational software, games that teach kids how

to learn. The products rate higher than the usual


-86

academic CD-ROMs because they're fun to play.' Brad
field shrugged. 'When I was a kid we played with toy
soldiers, but whatever floats the tiny demograph]c's
boats.'

He sat back, rather pleased with this. The Englishman

looked shrunken, almost drawn-in upon himself.
'Do you know the timetable for the launch?'

Another shrug. 'To get it right - and if it's Goldman
they will - a few months, for sure. Maybe four.'

'Interesting.' Ernie stubbed out his cigar, stood and
offered Chester Bradfield a weak handshake. 'Thanks for
lunch, OK? Talk to you again.'

He raced down the oak-panelled stairs of the narrow,
nineteenth-century building and out past the bowing
doorman. His driver was waiting for him. Lucky the limo
had two Ianks of phones and an in-car fax. Inspiration
had struck Ernie Foxton, and he wasn't going to wait to
get back to the office to get to work.


'So what do you think?' Michael asked Diana.

It was the end of the day. The staff had gone home, at
least most of them. The phones were stilled, and they
were going through the figures with cartons of Chinese
food and a pair of biros.

It was hard for Diana to be near him, but she gave no
sign of it. Both preserved cold body language. Each
waited for the other to make a move. But as neither did,

they just got on with the job.

'I think we should do it.'

'We'll need to go to a bank in the interim for a credit
line.'

'I know,' Diana agreed. 'But if we can tell them
confidentially about the IPO, they'll be happy to give us a
credit line.'

'More than happy,' Michael said, cynically. They
would love to because then there would be collateral.


z87

And once it was public, the possibility remained that he
could lose control. He glanced over at Diana. She was
gathering up her papers. She looked so good in that pale
golden suit. But what a goddamn prima donna she was.
Diana Verity? Please. Not only had she dumped him,

now she thought she was Gloria Steinem.

'Going somewhere?'

'I have plans,' Diana said, sweetly.

'That was fast.'

She arched an eyebrow. 'This may surprise you,
Michael, but my world didn't crumble into dust just
because we split up. I'll see you tomorrow.'

She gathered her things and was gone in a cloud of
perfume.

Bitch, Michael thought. Ball-breaking goddamn frozen

English bitch. He would say frigid if he didn't know

better.

Well, two could play at that game. There was a 7 p.m.

start at Yankee Stadium. He would call his friend Joe and
see a little night ball. Beer and a ballgame. Better than a
woman any day of the week. Especially that one.

z88


Chapter 3 z


The ballroom glittered like Aladdin's cave. It was
technically only a cocktail party, but you would never
know it. Swaths of delicate white tulle covered with
minute crystal beads hung from the ceiling like giant
spiders' webs covered in dewdrops. Gigantic white pillar
candles, scented with iris and lavender, burned at
strategic places around the room, casting a warm glow
on the go[den tables festooned with clouds of creamy
lilies and, frothing baby's breath, glittering crystal and
sparkling Cristal. A twenty-four-piece orchestra, clad all
in white, played softly as the beautiful people mingled.
And what a sight they were. Instead of the usual
command to dress in black or white, the invitation had said simply: 'Wear red'. Guests moved across the expensive
white cocoon it had taken Mrs Merriman's decorators
a day of flat-out work to create like poppies
scattering across a field of snow.

Even the men wore red. Diana thought of the extravagance
of it; these wer publishers, record executives,
television people; corporate Titans and their womenfolk.
None of them would own a red suit. They must all have
had one especially dyed just for tonight. And the rubies
the women were sporting were something else.

'Impressive,' she said to Claire Bryant, her date for the
evening. Claire was always inviting her out to society
evenings, and now Michael was gone from her life, Diana
had decided to accept. It was about time she got back
into the flow of things. She had some money again; not


z89

was tired of hiding away.

'Isn't it? Elspeth Merriman throws the most wonderful
bashes.' Claire leaned in towards Diana and touched her
flute bubbling with a champagne and pressed strawberry
juice cocktail. 'This one's to celebrate her fiftieth wedding
anniversary. As she gets older, she gets more dramatic.'

'She's got wonderful style,' Diana agreed. Her blue

eyes sought out their hostess, a wizened dwarf of a
woman who had defied her own rules and come in black.
She was wrinkled, like a toe after a long soak in the bath
and, from what Diana could see, dressed extremely
chicly.

'You can talk,' Claire said, gesturing at Diana's gown.

It was a brilliant cherry-red, with a vee that just covered
her full breasts then plunged straight down to the breastbone.
The Skirt was straight and heavy, and the sleeves
long and narrow. She looked like a medieval princess,
Eleanor of Aquitaine, ready to command armies and steal
the heart of a king.

'ft's Ralph Lauren,' Diana said simply. She didn't have

the ropes of rubies or the strings of pearl-set garnets that
the others were wearing, but she knew she didn't need
them. With a truly dramatic dress, less was always more.

'You have a terrific eye.' Claire loved Diana's irrever

ence; she was wearing a comfortable pair of rope-spun
sandals under her couture gown. It was the same eye that
had decorated her place so tastefully and, Claire was
sure, on a budget. 'Maybe you should come and work for

me.

'Anything would be better than the boss I have now,'

Diana said, flashing her friend a rueful smile.

Claire took her arm. 'Come on, let's mingle. If you're

sure you can handle Madame Merriman, that is. I do

have to warn you, she doesn't pull her punches.'

Diana took a sip of her champagne and smiled slightly.

z9o


'Right now,' she said, 'neither do I.'

Elspeth Merriman inspected the young woman being
presented to her by the Bryant girl with evident satisfaction.
She was exactly the right kind of stranger to meet at
a party. Rarely, in a world full of new money where taste
and cash were possessed by the Manhattan elite in
inverse proportions, had she seen somebody so well put
together. The dress, for example, was so exactly right. It
fit perfectly, it was daring without being cheap. And the
girl had picked just the right tones for her skin. She was
thirty or thereabouts, at the peak of her beauty, with an
English accent and soft brown hair she had not seen the
need to colour. Elspeth approved.. There were so many
bottle blondes in this town, it was almost like living in
Sweden. D,angerous curves on her, too. It was a good job
Elspeth's husband had passed the philandering stage long
ago. Thank God they had not invented Viagra earlier. It
would have caused her such problems.

'Do tell me about yourself, my dear,' she said.

Diana nodded. 'My name is Diana Verity. I work in
computer software.'

'Diana is a director of her company,' Claire chimed in.
'She's English. She used to be'

The claw-like hands clapped almost girlishly. 'Diana
Foxton. Ernest ..Foxton of Blakely's. The Chinese hooker.
Am I right?'

'Elspeth!' Claire protested, but Diana waved the
protest aside.

'Absolutely right,' she said. 'Luckily I found out
quickly enough to get out.'

'But you didn't even take him for every cent,' Elspeth
said. She had to hand it to the English girl, she wasn't
running off, snivelling, like young women normally did.

'At least that's what I heard.'

'Right again.'

'How independent of you.' Elspeth Merriman beamed,

zg


displaying new false teeth, white and marvellously realistic,
that the discreet little man in Switzerland had done
such an excellent job on. 'And you used to give the most
wonderful parties.'

Diana waved at the scarlet splash of society drifting
across the gorgeous cream of the room.. 'Not, I'm afraid,
as wonderful as yours.'

Claire Bryant smiled into her drink and suppressed a
cheer. Diana really could handle the old bat, huh?
Elspeth was the absolute queen of New York society at
the moment. She chaired every party that really mattered,
she knew all the right charity boards, and best of all, she
was old enough to enjoy trouble. Elspeth, in her rich,
pampered, jet-set way, simply didn't give a fuck. Which
was why Claire's grandfather had once romanced her,
and why his descendant liked her now. Claire had heard
Diana's whole story, and what her friend hadn't spilled,
she'd filled in for herself. It was quite easy to join up the
dots.

Diana needed a husband. With Elspeth Merriman's
help, she could snag a spectacular one.

Claire had never liked Jodie Goodfriend or Natasha
Zuckerman. The Wall Street wives liked to think they
owned this city. Certainly Diana's fall had entertained
the town for a few weeks. But Claire was a New Yorker
born and bred. She liked survivors. And clearly the
English rose in the silk gown qualified in spades.

Claire glanced to her right and her blond eyebrow
arched. Speak of the devil, as the old saying went, and his
horns appear. Or even her horns.

'Darling Elspeth.' Brushing Claire aside, Jodie Good
friend, skeleton-thin with glossy hair the colour of straw,
had arrived in a wave of Joy perfume and the standard
set of dazzling rubies. She wore a costly cheongsam the
shade of spilled blood that showed off her bony hips and
non-existent ass. Typical Jodie. She hadn't even looked to

see who else Elspeth might betalking to. She just charged
in and expected everyone to give way.

Claire noticed Diana was not flinching. She waited ]or
the penny to drop.

'Hello, Jodie,' Elspeth said in her sweetest tone, 'you
know Diana Verity, I believe?'

Jodie turned to her left and jumped a little. What was
Diana doing here? Wasn't she dead and buried? How
many calls from her had Jodie refused to take before the
stupid little limey had finally got the message that
divorced girls weren't welcome in the club?

'We have met,' Jodie said after a little pause. Her tone
was cutting. One party does not a comeback make,
sweetie, her pursed lips seemed to say. 'Before Ernie
divorced you, Diana, I think?'

'You think right.' Diana found she was slightly
amused. "You came to six of my dinner parties and ate
Out with me twice a week.'

Jodie waved one hand in the air to indicate how
unimportant that was in the scheme of things. 'Oh yes, I
recall. So many dinners ... so many luncheons ... it's
hard to keep them all straight in one's head.'

'It must be, with your busy schedule of shopping,'
Diana replied.

Jodie froze. Rather than begging and pleading to be
admitted back into the fold - as dear Felicity had done -
Diana was actually daring to be rude to her, Jodie
Goodfriend, wife of the chairman of Croesus Bank!

People had stopped talking and. were looking their
way. Enjoying the spat. Well, now was the time to put
the little upstart in her place.

'I like to shop. It's important to keep oneself looking
nice for one's husband. Part of what it takes to make a
marriage work,' she said, cuttingly. 'Perhaps you
wouldn't know too much about that. I dare say you have


z93

other interests. Shopping for roach-infested apartments in
Alphabet City.'

She laughed lightly.

Diana smiled back. The adrenaline was crackling
through her blood. So the bitch in front of her had read
that article in the tabloid? Of course she had. How can I
ever have liked this woman? Diana wondered.

'That was difficult,' she acknowledged. 'Of course I
moved out of there long ago. I have a little duplex in the
Brompton Building now.'

Jodie stiffened. The Brompton Building was the latest
fashionable place for rich young things to live. Not in the
league of her Bronxville country house, of course, but
definitely respectable.

'Seeing a new man? What quick work,' she shot back.
Diana gave her that aggravatingly superior smile. 'Not
exactly. I have a business. I am a director of Imperial
Games. I find talent, talk to banks, organise personnel
and office space, and oversee marketing.'

'Ah. A career girl. I find many women turn to that if

they find the social scene a little hard to handle,' Jodie
said, after a pause. Director? Of a company? Everybody
knew the only thing Diana Foxton could direct was her
cook.

'Really,' Diana said, coolly. 'I thought it was the other

way around.'

The aggravating, wretched Bryant girl was actually
sniggering! Jodie saw the amused faces of that old witch
Elspeth's friends smiling as though the most amusing
thing had just happened. She racked her brain for a
comeback, but there was none to be found. Jodie flushed
as red as her tight little dress, and flounced off. She would
dig out her mobile and call Natasha and Felicity. Diana
would pay for this.

'You made an enemy there,' Claire said once Jodie was

out of sight. 'Jodie has influence. You want to be careful.'


2-94

'Bullshit,' Diana said. 'If anybody needs to be careful,
it's her. You can say one thing for hitting rock bottom.
You find out who your friends are. Or in my case, aren't.'

'A wonderful performance, my dear.' Elspeth cackled,
squeezing Diana's arm. She hadn't enjoyed herself so
much for thirty years. 'I'm having a little party, a dinner
really, far more fun than this tiresome zoo. My house on
East Seventy-fifth, next Friday. Do come. I have a few
people I'd love to introduce you to.'

'I'd like that,' Diana said, 'Elspeth.'

She smiled graciously at her hostess. Next .to her, she
saw Claire itching to get her home so they could gossip
and plan a strategy. How divine if she could get revenge
on Felicity, Natasha and Jodie, all the people who
snubbed her so viciously on her way out of the' safely
married.circles. The thought occurred to her that Michael
would probably call this shallow and stupid, but who
cared what he thought?

Diana glanced round the opulent ballroom at the
guests who were nodding their appreciation of her verbal
spar. These were movers and shakers, the kind she had
longed to sit round her own table when she had been
married to Ernie. She met everyone's gaze and prepared
to do some serious mingling. Claire had taken one of her
arms, and Elspeth Merriman the other.

I'm back! Diana thought.


Ernie scanned the figures laid out in front of him and did
some quick calculations in his head. If the top-secret sales
projections for their software - his marketing whizzes
had come up with the name Education Station - were on
target, he would bring Blakely's quarterly profits Up
another z per cent by the next report. And with his
profit-share agreement, that could mean a bonus of
anything up to two million.


295

Not to mention the c[elicious fact that he would shaft

that little Yank bastard again at the same time.
'Yeah, I like it,' Ernie told Peter Davits.

The Russian grinned back. 'I thought you might, Mr
Foxton.'

Their design boys had been up all night for over a
week, running off covers, packaging and text that looked
and sounded just like Imperial's snazzy product. Better,
he could offer the market what Cicero could not - the
gaming resources of Signor Bertaloni's company and
instant distribution power in Toys '5t' Us and K-Mart.
Just to hammer the final nail in the coffin, he was going
for what Michael could never afford - TV spots.
Commercials would run coast to coast, from the Cartoon
Network to the chat shows that stay-home moms loved
to watch. Soon Education Station would be the only
name worth having in the house.

Lee Tatton, his marketing vice-president, chimed in.
'Just think, sir. Once our line is known, kids will think
everything else is a cheap rip-off. Research shows how
brand loyal they are. There are lots of better-made dolls
than Barbie, but any kid will tell you what she wants. It
has to be right.'

'And if Education Station gets known first, Imperial

will look like a cheap imitator,' Davits said.

'Too right.' Ernie smirked.

'But I have to warn you, television is not cheap. The
campaign will cost us, of that there is no doubt.'

'I don't give a luck what it costs.' Imperial was barely
weeks away from a launch. 'You get those spots on the
air. Find an agency that can pull it together fast. I want to
launch and I want to launch now.'

Chapter 3 3


It barely took two weeks.

Diana smiled when she thought about it. She had
blazed back on to the social scene like a comet, her
sparks and glow trailing right behind the conflagration of
Elspeth Merriman's prestige. Duing the day, she went
over the careful planning of the IPO with Michael,
keeping a cool professional distance and never allowing
herself to dwell on the way he still made her ache, late at
night, when the last kiss had been planted into the air
beside her cheek, and the last glass of champagne drained
to the bottom. Only in those moments, when she lay
tucked up and alone on her Pratesi sheets, looking out
through her window, at the night glitter of Manhattan's
skyline, did she really let herself feel the hole he created
when he left. OK, technically she had left, but he had
forced her into it.

Diana shook her head and picked up her new diamond
earrings to distract her. She'd said she wasn't going to
think about him. It was annoying the way she couldn't
control her thoughts sometimes. The business was cracking
along, and she basked in Michael's reflected glory.
The world was waking up to Irriperial. This morning
there had been half a paragraph, buried deep inside the Wall Street Journal. Goldman Sachs thought that interest
in the IPO would be substantial. She had been a part of it.
Even though Diana knew nothing about computer programming,
she certainly knew about gossip. People
gossiped in every circle in life, not just Hollywood and


297

the social-register crowds. Net geeks and comic-book
freaks gossiped just as much as anyone else. Her ability
to tap that rich stream to find the best, most committed
people had made her Michael's best headhunter.

And she couldn't fault him on the business front. He'd
given her a chance when nobody else wanted to know
her. Now he gave her credit, and not only that but pay
and a title to go with it. In his personal relationships
Michael was a sexist, domineering bastard - don't go
there again, Diana - but as far as the company went, he
was fair. A slave driver, sure. A stern boss - absolutely.
But you prospered at Imperial if you did good work.
Black, white, pink with green spots, he didn't give a fuck.
He promoted men and women according to just one
thing - how good they were.

Last week Michael had hired Jim East, a legendary
marketing man who hadn't worked in twenty years. He
was excellent at what he did. He was also seventy-eight.
The fact that he shared an office with Opie said a lot
about Michael's blinkers. He just didn't see anything
strange in that.

Outside the office, though, Diana wasn't going to
worry about what her boss thought.

Elspeth had been busy. A cocktail party here, a dinner
there, mixed doubles at her country club, and suddenly
Diana found herself back. It was fun to be worrying
again about what dress to wear next, to play with her
make-up and be torn between Prada and Lulu Guinness
as far as the bags went. She varied what she wore and the
tabloids picked up on her style. Women's Wear Daily loved her mix of Stella McCartney, Chanel and Richard
Tyler when the whole world seemed to be beige and
conservative - nothing but Ralph Lauren and Calvin
Klein, the Gwyneth Paltrow clones who swarmed everywhere.
She met and was sweet to Natasha Zuckerman,
and everybody strained to hear what was said. Felicity


298

Metson was supposedly furious. Diana tried to tell
herself she was above petty things like what Felicity
thought. But secretly she loved it. It was too much fun.

She selected a pink dress by Ghost, a wisp of nothing
that clung to her curves and swept to the floor, and
matched it with a rose silk Hermes scarf. The diamond
drops in her ears were decoration enough. A quick spritz
of the wild rose and lavender scent she had blended for
her in Paris, a tug on of her latest Manolos, and Diana
was ready to go.

Her phone buzzed. It was the doorman. Her car had
arrived.

'I'll be right down,' Diana said.

She picked up her tiny Gucci clutch handbag and made
for the elevator. It was a bore that Claire could not be
with her tonight, but her fianc had taken her off for a
romantic weekend at his country house upstate. At any
rate, with Elspeth behind her, Diana felt confident
enough to mingle on her own. New York loves a go
getter, she thought, examining her silken, scented reflection
in the glass doors of the elevator as it arrived. There
was absolutely no reason why she shouldn't give them
what they wanted.


Diana arrived at the Victrix Hotel at quarter to nine. The
chauffeur held the door open, and she emerged into a
small blast of popping flashlights, the cameras exploding
around her. She wasn't famous, but she was becoming a
minor celebrity, like Aerin Lauder, or Marie-Chantal of
Greece. She smiled and waved and headed inside. They
might remark on the fact that she had come alone; they'd
probably love it. You had to be pretty secure not to
bother scouring the city for an escort.

I'm young, free and single, Diana thought. Why not
enjoy it?
Tonight was one of the more vital moments on the


299

social calendar. A fund-raiser for the new Republican
mayoral candidate. Diana wasn't a voter, but that didn't
matter; half the people here were registered Democrats.
The point was that the place was full of celebrities and
power brokers, New York's television and media elite.
Donald Trump was flying in from Atlantic City; Si
Newhouse, Tina Brown, Barry Diller, the usual suspects
were all expected. Hip young movie stars mixed with
record moguls and starving artists, who had the
thousand-dollars-a-plate tickets courtesy of their patrons
in real estate or investment banking. Designers and mafia
dons, who these days preferred Wall Street to the fish
markets, plastic surgeons and minor princes would all
rub shoulders here - and then again at the fund-raiser for
the Democrats' candidate two months later.

Diana would be sitting next to Elspeth. Shaking hands,
smiling at people she knew - as well as people she didn't,
you had to be nice, who knew when it might bite you in
the ass? - she made her way through the ballroom to find
her table. The Victrix was the most exclusive hotel in the
city. It made the Plaza look like a YMCA hostel on a bad
day. The parties were usually themed; tonight it was
vaguely Republican. Torches that blazed with red, white
and blue flames were propped in crystal sconces along the
walls, and huge floral pillars fifteen feet high were
covered in roses, poppies, hyacinths, arum lilies, any
flowers that might contribute to the theme. Diana's eyes
widened a little. She was getting rather jaded with
American opulence, but - wasn't that an actual, incredibly
rare, white Thai elephant in the centre of the room,
with a keeper dressed all in gold mounted upon him? She
blinked. It was, definitely. You didn't know whether to
look at the decor or the guests first. The stars with glasses
in their hands were illuminated by chandeliers in the
shape of stars and glass bubbles, strategically placed
along barely there wires, that made you feel as though


300

ou were inside a glass of champagne. A waiter, dressed
in a dark-blue suit - his colleagues were in reds and
whites, too, of course - bowed and asked if madame
preferred Cristal, vintage Krug, or perhaps Veuve Cliquot
ros?

Slightly dazzled, Diana accepted the ros& She liked
Veuve Cliquot and, after all, the bubbly would now
coordinate with her dress. She started to repent of having
gone for something simple. There were women here in
ball gowns. After the austerity of the nineties, it seemed
that full-out glamour was making a bit of a comeback.
But it was too late now. She took a slow, fortifying sip of
the champagne, letting the bubbles sparkle over her
tongue. There were table plans written out in beautiful
calligraphy all over the room, She found one, and tried to
ferret out her own name from the hundreds in front of
her by the blood-red glow of one of the lamps. She couldn't see Elspeth's name either, but they were bound

to be next to each other

'Having trouble?'

Diana looked round. The voice, just behind her, was
warm and friendly, definitely unusual for a party like
this, where the guests would kiss each other all night long
then go home and bitch afterwards. It was also male. It
belonged to a tall man, with what looked like light
brown hair, though the lamp made it hard to see. He had
clean-cut features, sparkling eyes, white teeth and, she
noted, a marvellous white-tie suit. Many of the male
guests had ignored the invitation and turned up in
tuxedos. Not this one.

'Slightly,' she admitted. 'My eyesight isn't bad, but the
light--'

'Do allow me.' He offered her a firm handshake. 'My
name's Brad Bailey.'

'And mine's Diana Verity,' she said. He was confident,
and she liked that. He had an open smile and an easy

ymanner. And he was at least four inches taller than
Michael, not that she was going to think about Michael.

'I know.' Brad grinned at. her. 'I've seen your picture

around. And that accent is beautiful.'

'Thank you.'

'I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of
introducing myself. I just remembered that joke in Ten
Little Indians, ever seen that movie?'

She shook her head instead of saying no so that her
diamond earrings caught the light. It was easy to like this

man.

'You should, it's real funny. Anyway, this |rish guy

says he'd heard two Englishman were stranded on a
desert island for five years and never said a word to each

other because they hadn't been introduced.'

Diana laughed.

What a stone-cold fox, Bailey thought, with a body

that could make a dead man rise and do the mambo. He
loved her dress, her loose, long, brown hair, the delicate
scent of flowers that hung about her. And the way she
talked. Those English broads just exuded cool. Look at
Princess Diana. The woman actually had a nose like
Concorde, but she had borne herself with such confidence
and classy style that she had been thought the most
beautiful woman in the world. This girl was the same
way. Brad indulged in a little fantasy of Diana in tennis
whites, sipping a lemonade on the court of his country
club.

'I'm afraid we can come across as rather stuffy, but on

the other hand, we produced the Beatles and the Stones.

So you work it out.'

'I'd love to,' he said, smiling down at her. 'But I think I

might need some time to do it. Say, dinner?'

'Maybe,' Diana said, surprising herself. 'First I have to

find my place at this dinner.'


302

'Excuse me for just a second,' he said, bowing slightly
and moving away.

Diana's eyebrow lifted. He was chatting her up and
then excused himself? So be it. After Ernie, she was in no
mood to play games. Seething, she bent closer to the table
plan and found her name. Table eighty-nine. Now she
had to look on the floor plan and see if she could find
table eighty-nine, wherever it was. There were enough
tables in the ballroom to stock a branch of Ikea, except
that these particular tables would not be found there.
Solid mahogany and gold accents weren't their style. She
scanned the picture, ignoring the flautists and girls in
robes with miniature harps who .strolled behind her.
Eighty-nine... but Elspeth wasn't there. She must be ill.
Diana frowned lightly. She would have to make conversation
on her own, and--

'I'm back.' Brad Bailey tapped her on the arm.

'So you are,' Diana said evenly.

He admired her. Damn, she was cool. An American
girl would have harangued him, or batted her eyelids in
the face of his money and pretended not to care.

'Please excuse my abandoning you,' he said. 'I had to
speak to Fred Layton, he's organising stuff here. I
promised him an extra donation if he would alter the
seating plan a little.' He leant forward and struck
through her name on table eighty-nine. 'You are here
now on table three. With me.'

Diana's delicate eyebrow lifted. 'You got the seats
rearranged? I'm sure I'm not worth such trouble.'

'It would have been worth a good deal more than that,'
Brad told her, thinking of the eight grand he'd had to
promise to compensate for the last-minute chaos, the
hasty apologies made to the wealthy dowager who was
being ejected from her prime seat next to him. He
crooked his arm and hoped an English gentleman would
have done it in the same fashion. 'Shall we go to dinner?'


303

Diana's reservations melted. He was funny and charming
and solicitous. I deserve someone like this, she told
herself.

'Thank you. That would be lovely,' she said.


Brad was good at introductions. Even Diana was
impressed by the rest of their table. There was Fred
Drasner, owner of the News, on her left, and the
governor's wife on his right. Two film stars and a
princess of Monaco were broken up by a Nobel Prize
winner
and a huge, tall basketball player. She wondered
where Felicity Metson was sitting. She would gnaw her
heart out if she could see Diana now.

She greeted everyone politely, curtsied to the princess,

and settled down to wonder about her escort through the
speeches that were bound to follow. Brad Bailey? He
knew everybody, he was well liked, rich went without
saying. He had a nice body, a gym-lover's body, even if
he didn't lift many weights.

'You have the advantage of me,' Diana said. 'You

know who I am, but I can't say the same.'

He nodded. 'I'm in real estate. I own Bailey Realtors.

You won't have seen the name because we don't
advertise much, Mostly we deal in high-end properties in
Manhattan, Westchester and Long Island, with a little
work upstate.'

'What qualifies as high end?'

'Anything from eight or nine million up, basically.'
Diana studied her menu. Caviar blinis followed by
duck with a fresh pea confit, then apple charlotte with
vanilla-scented cream.

'How did you get into that?'

'It's a family business. My father built it up.' Brad
shrugged apologetically. 'I can't claim to be a self-made
man.'

'Let me guess.' She found she was teasing him. She


3o4

leant closer, and he breathed in the perfume of roses and
tried not to stare at the freckled slopes of her glorious
tits. 'A large family house on Brooklyn Heights, and pony
lessons at weekends?'

'Almost. A country estate in Westchester, a townhouse
in the city, and stables with horses.'

'And a private jet,' Diana suggested.

'Of course,' he said, seriously.

She swallowed. 'It sounds pleasant.'

'It is. I tend to commute in from my place at Scarsdale
in Westchester these days, though. I like waking up to
greenery.'

'I can understand that,' Diana said faintly.

'It gets me out of the city. I go to things like this
because I suppose I have to.'

'Where else would you find people that want to buy
and sell places starting at eight million?'

'Exactly,' he said, pleased at her perceptiveness.
'You're a businesswoman too, I know.'

'A headhunter, really. And - it's not quite so high
powered,' she said dryly.

'I hope your schedule will spare time for dinner?' he
said hopefully.

She gestured to her plate. 'Aren't we having dinner?'

He looked forlorn. 'Ah. You're going to tear a new
hole in my heart.'

Diana laughed again. 'Come on, Brad. You must have
a million girls chasing you.'

'I do,' he said, factually. 'But I don't like girls who

chase. I like girls who are chased.' "

'Like me?'

Brad gave her another warm smile. He was golden, she
thought, all-American, tanned and healthy.

'Exactly like you. So please put me out of my misery.
Say yes.'

3o5


Chapter 34


Michael was out running at quarter to six in the
morning, the wonderful dawn hour when the city that
never sleeps actually sleeps. Apart from the odd cop
coming off the night shift and the fresh-produce men
driving to the markets to pick up the day's selections, the
wide concrete canyons of Manhattan were deserted. He
had a membership to several fancy gyms now and kept
up the karate, which was good to work off his frustrations
over Diana, that ice-cold English bitch. But nothing
blew the cobwebs from Michael's mind like running in
the empty city. He pounded the concrete and leapt
between cross-streets down which no cars were coming.
The clean open lines of the New York grid almost pulled
his feet along them, challenging him to go faster and
harder. Most city joggers preferred the Park, but that was
far too bland for Michael. Why circle round and round a
fairly ordinary lake when you could be plunging through
the shuttered record stores of the East Village, or past the
manicured gardens on West Eleventh? Why bother with a
hundred other runners on the same beaten track when the
Museum Mile, with the stunning apartment buildings of
Park Avenue, was so close and could be your exclusive
playground? And best of all was midtown, where the
giant glass and slate towers jabbed up into the sky like so
many accusing fingers. He liked to time his run so that,
whatever the route, he finished up with a dash through
Times Square, with its massive billboards and scrolling
lights dominating the morning sky. Times Square used to


306

be a spot for hookers, but the city crackdowns had tidied
them all away. Now it was a place for chic little hotels
and cops streaming out of Police Plaza. It was still the
neon, beating heart of his city. Cicero thought of New
York as modern man's answer to the pyramids. He liked
to stop, drenched with sweat, the muscles of his legs
worked out, all his tension driven into the ground, and
gaze up at the colossal billboards. It was one of the best
parts of the day.

But not today.

Today, when he glanced up, he felt anger seethe in the
pit of his stomach like molten acid. He found his normal
deep breathing was ragged. He frow.ned, wiped the sweat
from his forehead, and frowned again.

EDUCATION STATION, said the caption. The words were

emblazoned over a sweet little kid with a pudding-bowl
haircut smiling as he glanced at a paper marked 'A'.
Underneath that was a blow-up shot of a CDROM
called Scientist Sam. The cute Muppet-like animal that
represented Scientist Sam was a total rip-off of Gecko,
the character star of his best-selling game.

Michael digested the ad for a few seconds, then turned
round. Usually he walked home after his run. Today he
was going to wing it. He didn't have time to walk.


The phone purred by Diana's bed, and she reached out a
languid hand to pick it up. She was tired; last night Brad
had taken her ice-skating at a private rink on the Upper
West Side, and then moved her into Le Cirque for dinner,
before finishing off with a nightcap at his house on East
Seventieth. He'd been funny as usual, urbane and
sophisticated, and very solicitous about her wants. He
didn't push himself forwards, and after taking her home,
had actually asked her permission to plant a kiss on her
cheek. His lips were soft and gentle.

He was almost a dream, she thought. So clean-cut and


307

good-looking he could be a male model if he wasn't a
super-successful real-estate broker. Elspeth Merriman
had been in fits about the fact that he had asked her out.

'My dear,' she said, placing one wizened hand, glittering
with diamonds, over Diana's soft one, 'you must
secure him as fast as you can. What a triumph! The
Baileys are quite the people around town. She is a much
sought after hostess and he's retired now, of course, but
Bradley has been doing so well. And still single. Every
mother in New York has been after him for years, he
dated a couple of times, Camilla Vendela, I think, and
Tina Fellows ...'

'I'm not after him,' Diana protested. 'Come on,
Elspeth. The world isn't like that any more.'

The thought of her first marriage flickered into her
mind, but she ignored it.

The old woman snorted. 'Of course it is. Tell Felicity
Metson the world is not like that any more.'

Diana smiled and said nothing. That was the wisest
tack. But Elspeth did have a point, and Claire reinforced
it. How would Felicity take her waltzing off with Brad

Bailey, the last single man worth anything on the scene?

'I'm just enjoying his company right now,' she said
finally.

Elspeth leaned forward, her crisp Chanel tweed bunching.
'You do that, dear. You enjoy his company. Just

make sure he enjoys yours.'

Well, last night had been very enjoyable. She almost

didn't want to go to work. But the telephone was ringing,

and she had to answer it.

She lifted the receiver. 'Hello, Michael.'

Who else would it be at 6.5 a.m?


After briefing Diana, Michael showered, dressed and
prepared to walk round to the office. He had no cell
phone and this might be the last minutes of the day he


308

could spend quietly. There would be a frenzy of calls and
recrimination later, Goldman Sachs wailing, the marketing
people yelling at their contacts, why hadn't anybody
gotten wind of this earlier. He could see it now, and he
knew how it would end. Ernie Foxton had what they lacked: money. He hadn't needed to float in order to get
cash for distribution and marketing. That deal with the
Italians, that Michael had read about and dismissed, that
was his footing in toys. And he knew the devious twists
of that little fucker's mind. Foxton would have spent
heavily on this launch. That billboard wouldn't be a one
off.

He set out at a fast clip. It cleared the mind to walk.
This would ruin the IPO; he realised that straight away.
Their product was no longer unique. Without ad-spend
or awareness from Joe Public, they looked as though they
had come late to their own party.

It was almost as if it was deliberate.

He turned the corner onto West Fourth and mulled
that over. Deliberate? Ernie Foxton had certainly enjoyed
firing his ass and cheating him of his millions. But would
he come after him further? Was this an intentional
attempt to ruin him?

Michael's thoughts slid to Diana. Ernie had divorced
her and had hooked up with some new gold-digging
broad, but Michael had given Diana a job. When the
company, and she, had sarted to take off, maybe it had
pissed him off.

They did say you hated the people you had harmed
worse than the people who harmed you.

He thought about that ad. It wasn't just a kids'
educational CD-ROM. It was a total rip-off of Imperial's
own ground-breaking product.

Plenty of his best people - Diana's best finds - were
staying with his comparatively small salaries because
they expected a big pay day. From the start it had looked'

309


like Imperial would float. All the staff had small stakes.
They would all have become rich to greater or lesser
degrees when the IPO went through. But that was over

now.

Michael thought it through. They would walk, and he
couldn't fault them. This was a business, not a charity. If
he was a top-grade code-writer, or a marketing hotshot,
he wouldn't take thirty grand a year less than he was
worth with no trade-off. A big staff haemorrhage would
gut his company. Product would be late and less good.
Distributors would fall away. It would be back to square
one.

Anger closed a cold fist around his heart. Fuck it. If
Ernie Foxton thought this would kill him off, he was
mistaken. And if he wanted war, he was welcome.


'So what's the news?' Ernie said. It was a great morning,
he thought. Jung-Li had been superbly vicious, the little
bitch, this morning. She'd broken in a new pair of steel
stilettos on his back. Felicity had kept out of his way,
apart from sending up his favourite breakfast, and there

was the news from the lawyers.

Goldman Sachs was pulling back from the Imperial
offering. The word was out, Fineman said. The ad spots
they'd run last night had done well and been noticed.
Clearly Imperial was no longer the only player on the
scene. The market hated uncertainty and would wait to
see how Blakely's did.

'The offering's postponed. Which means they don't

have money.'

'They're dead,' Ernie crowed. 'Little cocky bastard.'

'Er ... quite,' Fineman agreed. 'Certainly I foresee a

good many problems for them.'

Ernie hung up whistling. He was a king of the bloody
universe. It was great to have cash in New York. He was
Ernie Foxton, he could make men and break them.


31o

ichael Cicero once objected to dancing to his tune.
Diana the same. But I don't take crap, Ernie told himself,
importantly. This would show the world that if Ernest
Foxton struck you down you stayed down.

It pissed him off that Diana had apparently taken back
her own name. Felicity had come in after the Elspeth
Merriman party, whining and carrying on about her.
Ernie gave her to understand that he didn't want to hear
it. He hated the idea of public fights. Everything round
him should be smooth. That was his image. He had to
keep up the image.

But Diana Verity? What the luck was wrong with
Foxton? She was lucky she'd ever been his wife. It bugged
him that she had the balls to do it.

He pulled himself back to the present. Pleasant reflections
on the shitty day Michael Cicero would be having
couldn't last for ever. He had the monthly review meeting.
Davits, Norman Jackson, his new adult fiction chief,
and Emma Datson, who ran marketing, were all lined up
around the table with the flunky suits from their departments whose names he didn't bother to remember.

'Lawrence Taylor is going so well,' Emma gushed. She
was a beautifully put-together forty-something and
therefore of no interest to Ernie. Women for him stopped
at thirty-five. However, she had survived his purge by
being too good to sack. So far. That could change at any
second.

'We expect him to go well. He's our biggest author.
Gimme the breakdown of the list,' Ernie said.

There was a moment's pause. His executives were
looking a bit shifty, Ernie realised suddenly. Staring
down at the table, and that.

'Out with it,' Ernie snapped. 'I asked for a fucking
breakdown. Capisce?'

Mrs Datson swallowed. 'Well ... there has been a
teeny sales problem with some of our new signings.'

MErnie blinked. His new signings were the big-ticket
names, the trashy novelists to whom he had cleared out
all those literary fuckers and whiny poetry writers, lie
had spent heavily on ads, mostly using the money he'd
saved by firing all the dead wood, the old sales reps who
weren't making their quotas, the tweedy fucking American
gentlemen editors in the history department, the men
who started spouting crap about what the publishing
house should be giving back to the community. It was a
pretty penny altogether, had done fantastic shit for the
bottom line. It was how he got his ruthless reputation.
The stock had soared, too.

He was pleased he'd taken out the trash. The star
author drive was part of that. Their blaze of posters,
radio ads, in-store dump bins, pro-PR campaigns and
talk-show appearances had produced six new bestsellers
that had taken turns at the top of the New York Times list for the last six months.

'What are you talking about?' He lectured Datson like

she was a particularly stupid child. 'Lawrence's book is
number fucking one. The rest are doing good too. No?'

'They are,' Emma agreed nervously, 'in terms of chart
positions. But since we stopped the advertising, sales
have taken a bit of a dip.'

'A dip? What kind of a fucking dip?'

'Twenty-eight per cent on Shoshanna, thirty-nine per

cent on Richards, forty-one on Redde--'

He held up a hand. 'I get the picture. Why the hell has

	happened? Why did we stop the advertising?'

that

'We have spent heavily,' Davits said.

'You gotta spend it to make it,' Ernie snapped.

'Yes. But if we spend at the same rate, the profit from

the bestsellers cancels out. We must let them try to carry
their own weight. And other sales have fallen heavily
too.' Davits ploughed on. Nobody else would dare to tell
Ernie the way things actually were but if they lost ground

at this rate he thought maybe the company would be in
trouble, and that would be bad for his career. 'The midlevel
writers, the genre romances, the ones the agents
brought on board.., that list is selling very badly. Two
of the literary authors we axed, who have advances of no
more than a hundred thou, have just had bestsellers for St
Martin's Press and Simon and Schuster ...'

'Who cares what they've done? You're a bunch of
incompetents.' Ernie blustered at them furiously. 'If it's
not selling, it's your fault. I don't want to hear can't. There's no such word as can't. This strategy worked
perfect in England and it'll work perfectly here too. Six
fucking bestsellers. You make sure they keep selling.'

'But--' Davits started, and Ernie was forced to cut him
off.

'But what? Don't talk to me about but. OK? Just get
out. Come back when the figures are right.'

They got up and hurried out of the conference room.
Ernie glared after the retreating backs, noting with grim
satisfaction that none of them was dumb enough to look
back his way. Peter Davits was last out. He closed the
door quietly behind him.

That showed them, Ernie thought. He wasn't having
that bullshit. He was the boss.


Michael sighed, pressed the hold button, and switched to
another call. He had an ache in his neck from having had
the phone glued to his ear all day. The calls from the
lawyers, the distributors, the investment bankers didn't
stop coming, but the result was the same. An IPO would
be madness right now. They had to Watch the Education
Station range. Yada, yada, yada ...

Already he had talked it through with Diana. She was
almost as mad as he was. The thought occurred to him
that he'd gone almost a whole day without thinking
about that Brad Bailey guy she was meant to be seeing.
She had rallied the troops. He was going to call a


3x3

company meeting tomorrow. Michael sighed. Some guys
would walk, others he'd have to fire. Right after hiring
them, too. Goldman Sachs didn't come cheap, and now
he had to find a way to pay them without market
capitalisation.

He hated Ernie Foxton.

Tina Armis, their receptionist, walked into the room

with a cup of coffee and a muffin. It smelled real good,
like it had just come out of the oven. Wordlessly, she set
it down before him. Michael talked to his distributors
and reached out to touch the muffin. Yeah, it was
actually warm.

'Thank you,' he mouthed at her.

Tina gave him a slow smile. 'No problem,' she said.
He finished the call and jumped back to the first,
vaguely aware that Tina was hovering in the background
still. Michael let his eyes drift back towards her. She was
young, maybe twenty-two or three. She had long blond
hair and large blue-violet eyes, as well as a small, pert
pair of tits and coltish legs that rose up towards a skirt
that hovered on the knee. Tina was an all-American

'beauty. Where was she from? He thought maybe the
Bronx, Williamsbridge perhaps. Michael's eye roved to
her skirt. It was pencil-line tight on her slender form. He
didn't see any panty line. He thought she might be
wearing a thong. A cute babe, for sure.

He hung up. 'You want somet, hing, Tina? It's been a

busy day.'

'Oh, I know.' She twisted her hands nervously.
Michael smiled to put her at her ease. 'I'm sorry to bother
you, Mr Cicero.'

'No bother. Anything I can help you with.'

'Actually it's kind of more personal.' She blushed,

deeply. 'I hope you don't think me too forward but I
wanted to ask you out. To dinner tomorrow.'


34

'What?' Michael said, sputtering. It was so artless. He
was used to girls hitting on him, but

'You're laughing at me.' She looked forlorn. 'I'm sorry.
I knew this was a bad idea.'

'No. I'm not.' He said it hastily. She was cute, and why

the hell should he sit at home pining after Diana?
'You'll actually consider it?' Tina beamed.
'I'll do more than that.' Michael thought about those
long legs wrapped round his waist. 'I'll pick you up at
eight.'

3x5


Chapter 3 5


'I'm really sorry, you guys.'

Toby Roberts looked at Michael and Diana and
started to shift a little on his feet, like a kid caught
smoking pot by the principal.

'I wanted to stay. I really dug it here. We had a blast.

But these guys have, like, offered me--'

Diana glanced at Michael. Toby was the latest of their

top talent to desert them for Education Station. The IPO
had crashed, they had to move the company out of the
West Fourth Street house to a far smaller, regular office
on Eighth Avenue and Thirtieth, and there was no way
they could compete with Foxton's offers. Cars, paid
vacations and huge salaries were all being dangled in

' front of Imperial's best programmers.

Toby was among the last to succumb. Michael
looked resigned to it. He'd told Diana this morning he
was grateful Toby had stuck it out as long as he had.

'I know what they offered you,' Michael told him.
'You'd be mad not to take it.'

Toby still looked embarrassed. 'Man, my girl wants to

get married and shit--'

'That's great. You take the job. I would do exactly the

same thing.'

'OK.' Toby offered each of them a solemn, rather
grubby hand. 'I hope you guys are going to be all right.'

He looked around at the small, cramped office space,

the rented fax machines and dwindling bank of phones,


36

and his tone came out more doubtful than he had
intended.

'We'll be fine,' Michael said, in a tone of calm
certainty. Toby wondered how the guy could do that. He
said it like it was just a fact, like nothing had happened.
'You take care. Stay in touch.'

'Definitely,' Toby promised, blushing again and sidling out.

He felt like a fucking snake. But a hundred thousand a
year and a Mercedes? What was he supposed to do? It
was clearly the right way to go. Mike said so. But he
hated leaving him. He was the kind of boss you'd follow
into battle.

Diana Verity was sticking with him, Toby reflected as
he waved for a cab. Strange, that. The lady was so high "
maintenance. Who knew how long Michael Cicero

would be able to afford her?
Of course, Michael had some out-of-office consolation.
That Tina Armis. Man, she was some piece of ass.


Michael closed the door on Toby and looked at Diana.
'Come on. We'll go to my office and review.'
'Sounds good,' Diana said, determined to remain
upbeat. The company was like a sinking ship, complete
with rats abandoning it from every porthole, but she had
decided - she wasn't even sure when - to stick with it. It
felt like her own thing. )knd if Michael was going down,
she was going down with him.

Elspeth had offered to find her another job. 'Interior
decor, darling,' she suggested. 'Your old offices were so
stylish. I know plenty of wonderful ladies who would
love to take you on. You could start with Brad's
townhouse. Goodness knows what the fee on that would
be.' Elspeth's painted, wrinkled mouth smiled emphatically.
'He has no budget limit, you see.'

But Diana had gently refused. Maybe it was her


37

encounter with Jodie Goodfriend; she wanted New York

to understand that her job, her company, was serious.

There had to be a way back.

Michael led her through the front office, where their

sales people were desperately trying to reassure distributors
about packaging dates for the new line, to his small
private room in the back. Tina Armis had her own little

desk

	just in front of it. She stood up as Diana

approached. Diana looked her over. Since she had started
dating Michael she had made a big deal of it, Diana
thought, annoyed. The girl was barely out of diapers.
Glossy long hair, a very unnatural shade of pure
platinum, flowed down her back. She wore a business
suit, Diana saw, a real short one that let her display long,
lean legs in flat shoes - she was so tall she could afford to
do that - and probably little else. There were no lines
whatever under that suit. Diana imagined her ducking
into Michael's office and flashing him, letting him pull up
her skirt and force her over the desk, just the way he used
to do to her. Tina was welcome to him, Diana thought
fiercely. With her brows plucked so thin she needed
make-up to restore them, and her lips lined with a darker
colour than her lipstick to make them look plumper, not

to mention those nails that were far too long . ..

'Good morning, Mr Cicero,' she said.

Good morning, Mr Cicero, Diana mocked in her head.

She was just like Marilyn .Monroe addressing JFK, all breathy and thrusting forwards those unimpressive tits.
Tina was thin, too. Far thinner than Diana would ever
be. Diana reminded herself that she liked her body. She
wasn't going to get caught up in the skinny blonde thing,
which Michael had evidently had the bad taste to do.

'And good morning, Miss Verity,' She added,
resentfully.

Diana gave her a brisk smile. The younger woman was

eyeing her like she was some kind of threat. Why she


3x8

thought every woman in the world would be after
Michael Cicero was beyond Diana. Don't you read the
gossip columns? Diana thought, nodding at Miss Pert
Tits. Don't you know I'm dating the last single millionaire
in Manhattan?

'Good morning, Tina,' she replied. 'Could you fetch me
a coffee? Decaffeinated. You want anything, Michael?'

'Not right now.' Michael opened his office door and
went in, oblivious to the undercurrent of hostility
outside. Diana noted that Tina flounced off to get her
coffee. She was one of those women who loved to dance
attendance on men but hated having to fetch anything for
another female. Diana knew the type; the air hostess who
takes twenty minutes to respond to a woman's buzzer
and five seconds to reach the man who calls her.

She also thought Tina was a gossip. Decal coffee had
to be brewed from scratch. If Michael and she were going
to talk about the dire state of Imperial, Diana would
rather it wasn't all round what programmers they had
left in the next five minutes.

'Shut the door,' Michael said.

Diana slid herself into one of the simple, functional
chairs they had bought from Staples. Nothing fancy here
any more. In fact the fanciest thing in the place was
probably his director, Michael thought, trying not to
look at her legs. Thankfu!ly he had Tina. He let his mind
drift back over their session this morning.., she loved to
wake him up by giving him head, sliding her thin but
eager lips over his cock, her fingertips trailing across his
balls. Michael loved to luck in the mornings and Tina
could do unbelievable things with those long legs. He
liked to put her on her back on the bed and stand in front
of her, her slim ankles locked around his neck while he
fucked her, letting his cock slide in deep enough just to
stroke the G-spot and give her a shuddering orgasm. Tina
was undemanding. Not smart, but adoring. She didn't'


39

give him any lip, she liked sex, and then to sit around
watching TV. Michael was grateful she'd been there. His
stress was instantly relieved, in the bedroom. He told
himself he hardly ever thought about Diana any more. If
he chanced to come across a picture of that rich-ass boy
scout in the papers, he simply flipped the page and didn't
let it bother him.

'Things aren't good.' He pulled his mind back from the
subject of Brad before he got really enraged. 'We've lost
Toby, Sarah, Jack and Felix, to that fucker your ex
husband.'

'And your ex-partner,' Diana shot back. 'We were

both guilty of a misjudgment.'

He held up his hands. 'Agreed. In my view this is
deliberate. Not just that they happened to get into the
education software business, but that he has a vendetta.
He wants to crush me. Maybe you, as well.'

'With what they're paying our people ... on our old

profit margins, it would eat up most of them,' Diana said
slowly.

'Right. It's not profit that's his motive. It's revenge.'
Diana felt a flash of anger. 'He wants to ruin us?'
'Looks that way. Let's consider where we are. We have
the new range, the Gecko Math and Science games. All
completed before our guys got tempted away. We have
some marketing men left. Harry Venture for one. And we

also

	have

		key talent who refused to walk out. Ernie

offered Opie the moon, but he refused to leave.' Michael
gave her a rueful grin. 'He's pretty loyal, for an ex-.
slacker. Our best code-writers are still here. We can build
on that.'

'Yeah, but the fact is,' Diana said, that our distributors
are worried and word on the street is we might close

down. That means less racking-out in the stores ...'

'And that's what we need to counter. The fact is, right

now we don't need our programmers. Not right away.'


3zo

Michael shot from his chair and started to pace. He
looked like a leopard, a jaguar. Feral. Suddenly she
almost felt sorry for Ernie. 'We actually have product
ready to go. We can package it, sell it, and use the profit
to wipe out the bank debt.'

'I can talk to the banks,' Diana agreed.

'Right. That keeps us afloat and buys us time. Meanm while you look for new code-writers. There must be some
out there that are untapped. And we wait for Ernie to
luck up. The fact is, he's going to.'

'How do you know that?' Diana asked.

Michael looked at her, and she had the impression he
was looking straight through her, into the future. He was
focused like a laser beam.

'Because he doesn't understand children,' Michael said.
'He doesn't care. He just wants money. It's why the new
Green Eggs range of books was such a bomb.'

'It was a bomb?' Diana repeated, surprised. 'How do
you even know that? We're not in the publishing business
any more.'

'I keep tabs on him,' Michael said, and his voice was
cold. 'Know your enemy. Now, you go out there and
rally the marketing guys and go tap-dance for the banks.
I'll handle the distributors. We'll take it slow, and we'll
get through this.'


Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The
golden, sunny fall in Manhattan deepened and hardened
into winter. Diana bought warm clothes and went
dancing with Brad but Imperial occupied all her time.
Little by little, under Michael's leadership, they clawed
their way back from the brink. The Gecko games were
another small success. Suddenly they could pay their
bills.

Diana scouted for code-writing talent, but she looked
in different places this time. Hackers with criminal'

records, designers of board games, females who were
locked out of the computer boys' club, all came on board.
Michael didn't care. He said they were in the second
chance business. 'These guys get one and it means we get
one,' he said.

By the time December blasted down across the skyscrapers,
a third line was in production. Imperial was
back.


'What are you doing Friday night?'

Diana looked up from her screen to see Michael
standing over her with a pair of tickets in his hand. She
lifted a brow. 'Asking me out on a date?'

'Since I'm dating Tina, I don't think that would be such

a good idea,' he said, easily.

Diana looked across the room at Tina. Since the
weather had turned bitter, she no longer skipped around
the office in her itsy-bitsy skirts, but she still managed to
be fully clothed and look like she was wearing next to
nothing. Today she wore a pair of thin, black leather
pants that hugged her flat stomach and tiny butt, and a
matching silky jersey top with a plunging neckline, about
as daring as Michael's dress code would let her go. Diana
couldn't stand Tina, which meant she had to make an

extra effort to be nice to her. It was annoying.

'Not for Tina, anyway,' she muttered.

Michael said, impassively, 'And you're still seeing
Brad?'

'Of course. You know I'm still seeing Brad,' Diana
snapped.

'Not really. I'm not that interested in your private life.

I guess that means he's flying you somewhere in his
personal jet on Friday?'

Diana bristled. 'We have plans. We were going
shopping.'

'So he can pick you up a million-dollar trinket at

Tiffany's.' Michael sneered. 'I understand. Forget I
mentioned it.'

Diana chewed on her lip. The goddamn guy was as
insufferable as ever. 'Wait! Michael. What is it? I can
cancel.'

'It's the New York Library Benefit Dinner.' Michael
tossed her a ticket. 'Publishing's biggest event this season.
I've taken a table. If Ernie Foxton comes after me on my
territory, I'm going to come after him on his.'


Diana dressed with more care than usual. She wanted to
look good, but not too good. It wouldn't do for that
arrogant man to think she was chasing him. This was an
important evening for the firm, she told herself. A
statement of intent. That was what counted.

'I think that's the one,' she said. She held up the
plainest dress in her wardrobe, a silk jersey knit with a
square neckline in gunmetal grey. 'What do you think? I
could wear my Paul Smith flats ...'

'Right, and why not add a pair of granny spectacles to
complete the look,' Claire said sarcastically. 'You act like
you're afraid of something.'

'Of course I'm not. I just don't think I should overdo
it,' Diana protested.

Her friend looked at her quizzically. 'This from the girl
who wore a golden-mesh chain-mail Versace number to

the Fire and Ice Ball las{ month?'

'So? I was being fiery,'

'The fact that Felicity Metson and Jodie Goodfriend

were there had nothing to do with it, right?'
'Sometimes I do like to dress up.'

'You could say that. You know you're driving poor
Brad crazy. He feels like he can look at you but not
touch.'

Diana nodded. Sex was a sore point in their relationship.
Somehow she just did not feel right about taking


3z3

him to her bed yet. Maybe she was turning into an old
fashioned girl, but she didn't think so. He kept hinting
about marriage. Maybe she was subconsciously holding
out for a ring. Who the luck knew? She really didn't
herself.

'He knows we'll do it when the time is right.'

Claire made a face. 'Do it? You sound like a teenage
boy. How about make love?'

'That too.' Diana smiled. 'You really think this is too
plain?'

'You want to put the fear of God into Ernie, right?'
'That's right.'

'Then you need to make a splash.' Claire brushed her
aside and delved into the walk-in closet. 'Take the dark
green. It sets off your eyes.' She held up a floor-length
Chloe gown in rich green velvet with a seed-pearl trim
around the waist. It pleated gently over the breasts, to
emphasise them, and then hugged her butt and tapered
down into a fishtail. It was an exact fit; nothing but a tiny
thong would slip under that.

'I can't,' Diana muttered. 'It looks too good.'

'You sound like you're more than afraid of that
Michael guy,' Claire said. 'I think you're in love with
him. Otherwise why would you care?'

'Nonsense.' She snatched the gown out of her friend's
hand. 'I don't care what he thinks one way or the other.
Give it to me. I'll wear it.'

3z4


Chapter 3 6


She stepped out of the limo in a rustle of warm, rich
velvet and looked up at the hotel. Several press snappers
were lined up at the entrance, kept at bay by a red rope
and a bunch of liveried security men. A warm murmur
and low whistles greeted her arrival, at the sight of the
tight plunge of dark green around her warm skin and
glorious curves, the pearls which gleamed at her waist
and again looped around her neck. Diana had borrowed
Claire's family heirloom, the Bryant necklace, a string of
pearls the size of small marbles, with a marquise-cut
emerald set in the centre. Against the snow, she was a
burst of colour, green in the middle of winter. Her dark
brows were shaped just a little, her full lips a daring red
plum shade, nothing but a whisper of gloss blush on her
sharp cheekbones and a light-brown shadow to bring out
the sky blue of her eyes.

The paparazzi were all men and didn't catalogue this.
They just saw Diana Verity, the wife in the Foxton
rumours, looking good enough to eat, like a Christmas
present. Flashbulbs popped like firecrackers as she swept
past, ignoring them, into the main hall.

Diana glanced around her at the rich guests. Among
the uniform black tie of the men she saw faces she
recognised: Rudolph Giuliani, the famous former mayor,
Bobby De Niro and his gorgeous black girlfriend, Barry
Diller, Ted Turner, apparently flown in from Atlanta...
but this was publishing's night. Super-agents and the
CEOs of the large book houses were all here with their'

3z5


wives, usually thin, blonde girls with bodies like Tina
Armis, groomed to perfection and wearing black with
diamonds dripping from their lobes.

She was a director, sure. But her company was small,
fighting for survival. These were movers and shakers, and

at least one of them was out to destroy her.

She gave her name to a receptionist.

'Diana Verity ... Imperial ...' The girl scanned her
seating chart. 'With Michael Cicero, president.., ah, yes
... table twelve. Mr Cicero has already arrived.'

'Yes he has.' Diana stood upright and turned round.
Michael was standing behind her in a dark dinner jacket
and plain white shirt. It looked as though it had been
pressed just minutes ago. The tux picked out his brown
eyes and thick, dark lashes and set off his black hair.

'You shouldn't bend over like that. It's too much shape

for these old men to handle,' Michael said softly in her

ear. 'You could be arrested for giving them heart attacks.'

Diana blushed. 'Come off it, Michael, OK? Look at the
women in here. All New York men want is a size-zero
teenager in beige Calvin Klein.'

'Don't you believe it. Men like tits and ass. Always

have done, always will do.'

'Do you have to be so vulgar?' Diana hissed.

He shrugged unrepentantly. 'You asked babe, I told

you.'

'I didn't ask you anything.'

Michael looked down at her. Diana felt his eyes
trailing across the plunge of her dress, fixing on her
bottom, then running round her small waist and stopping
right in the middle of her groin. To her dismay she felt a
point of heat burning in between her legs. Her pussy
tightened in a way she hadn't felt since .

She stopped herself and drew a deep breath. Come on,
Diana. You tried it with him and it didn't work out.
Anyway, he's seeing that blond, skinny bimbette. You


3z6

and him are like fire and petrol. Put you together and it's
just too much.

'We're not here to fight,' Michael said. 'Let's try to
suspend hostilities just for once. We're here to announce
ourselves.'

'Agreed. We're on table twelve.' Diana recovered her
poise. She wasn't going to allow Michael to disturb her.
She couldn't afford that. She was dating Brad and in
partnership with Michael, working for him, hadn't she
already decided that she needed to keep him at arm's
length?

'Then let's go.' Michael offered her his arm, and she
laid her fingers gently on his sleeve, as though contact
with him might burn her.

The ballroom was packed. Everywhere you looked,
moguls swept their wives towards tables round which
throngs of waiters were hovering. Of all Manhattan's
charity evenings, this was one of the least showy and the
most prestigious. There were no big-name rock stars, no
themed decor here tonight. Rather there were speeches on
literacy from leading educationalists and a short toast by
the governor. Tonight was erudite, witty, about books
and reading. And the competition for tickets was vast.

Diana moved under a chandelier and accepted a
Bellini. She enjoyed fresh peach juice and champagne and
she could sip it while try!ng to get her bearings. Many of
the faces here she knew from her dinners as Mrs Foxton.
There was Harry Evans, for example, and over there Tina
Brown with Harvey Weinstein ...

'Diana, have you met Richard Frer?' Michael said,
introducing her to a tall man with a ramrod-straight back
and a shock of white hair. 'I worked with Richard when I
was running Green Eggs. He's a buyer for Barnes &
Noble.'

'Nice to meet you.' Diana shook hands firmly and
smiled up at the man. 'I hope Michael has been telling'


3z7

you about our games. We could supply to your Net
operation.'

And they were off. Michael swam through the room
like a feeding shark, greeting women and men, introducing
Diana, while she gave them the pitch. She noticed
the heads put discreetly together after they had passed, the
way chatter rose up after Michael had moved through.
And the reaction, she was relieved to note, was positive.

'I love selling your games,' the buyer at Amazon told
them. 'Parents write us thank-you notes. And that's rare.'

'Michael has such a touch with what kids want,' Greg
Bear from Waldenbooks said. 'I'm sure he's taught you a
great deal. I have a six-year-old who went up two letter
grades after a month on the Gecko Math game.'

To her surprise, Diana found she was really starting to
enjoy herself. Socialising came easily to her, and the
executives here were mostly aware of Imperial. Michael
was a known quantity and they seemed willing to accept
her without question because they knew him.

By the time the announcement for dinner was made,
the room was buzzing. A new company was on the scene.
Everyone knew that Michael Cicero, still in his thirties,
the guy who kept bouncing back like a rubber ball, was a
force to be reckoned with. Diana Verity actually looked
like more than window dressing. This time last year she
was just a trophy wife, they told themselves. But this was
New York, where stranger things had happened.

Exhilarated, Michael shepherded Diana over to their
table. It gave him the opportunity to rest his hand on the
small of her back. He could feel her spine through the
soft velvet and rest his thumb just on the curve of her
incredible ass. How he missed that firm, curvy butt. The
temptation to reach his hands down and just stroke and
knead her skin was intense. But he managed not to do it.
She was dating Bradley the Billionaire, Michael reminded
himself sarcastically. After the divorce Diana has


3z8

rebounded real fast. Brad would be a big step up for her.
Mansions, townhouses, private jets, everybody knew
about the Bailey fortune.

I'll never have enough money to satisfy a girl like her,
Michael thought. And women who liked men with
money were anathema to him. Diana did her job well.
That was all he should care about.

If he could just stop thinking about her.

Their table was a good one, just two back from the
centre of the room. Michael grinned. All that string
pulling had definitely paid off. He could see the floor, see
if there was anybody else he should be talking to. And the
industry could see him. Thanks to Diana, virtually the
only lady present wearing any kind of colour, they stood
out as though she was wearing a billboard.

'Michael, look,' Diana said, suddenly stopping him
dead.

She pointed.

He saw.

Two of the other six people at their table were Felicity
Metson and Ernie Foxton.

Michael squeezed Diana's hand. As far as business

went, they had no reservations about each other.
'Ready to show them what we're made of?'
'Absolutely,' Diana said, winking back at him.

Arm in arm, they walked over to the table - well,
Michael walked, but the only word for what Diana was
doing, he thought, was sashaying. Man, he wanted to
grab her by that tiny waist and pull up those green folds
and slide his hand in between her creamy thighs and start
palming that silky little pussy until he melted her ice-core,
had her begging him to fuck her like she used to... With
difficulty, he lifted his eyes from her rear undulating just
beside him and fixed them on his enemy. The men
automatically stood as another lady approached the'


3z9

table. Michael noticed how Ernie's eyes half bugged out
of his head.

They shook hands and slipped into their seats. Michael
examined Felicity Metson. Her hair was worn up in an
ornate French bun which glittered with some kind of
wiring. Her hairdresser had done it tightly enough to
stretch the skin on her face. She was bony and the hair
made her look angular. He noticed that she was wearing
a short black sheath, a plain dress designed to make her
look even skinnier. A set of blood-red talons rested on the
table and she wore a thin diamond necklace. She was
made up with great care: heavy mascara, two thin red
lines of blush on her cheeks, and a cat's moue of a mouth
in fire-engine scarlet.

Damn, Michael thought. Ernie Foxton had to be
insane. He married the girl with the best body in England
and then swapped her for a richer version of trailer-park
trash.

'I'm Michael Cicero,' he said, offering Felicity his
hand. 'I don't think we've met.'

'I don't, either.' Felicity looked him over haughtily. 'I
only mix in society circles and publishing, of course.'

He smiled at the rebuke, watching Ernie greet Diana
frostily. Whoever had drawn up this seating plan had a
sense of humour, that was for sure.

'Then perhaps you'll be seeing a bit more of me. Our
games sell to booksellers too.'

Ernie turned on him without preamble. What a thin
little weasel the guy is, Michael thought. What a
goddamn pity we live in a sue-happy society. I would just
love to take him outside and kick his fucking ass.

'I don't think so.' Ernie addressed the other guests at
their table, a books editor for Time magazine and his
wife, who were relaxing in their chairs, preparing to
enjoy the fireworks. 'Michael used to be a junior


33�

executive working for Blakely's. We didn't see eye to eye
so I had to let him go.'

Michael felt Diana tense beside him and gently put one
hand on her thigh to stop her from blasting off at Ernie.
People knew what the score was with Green Eggs. He
silently willed her to understand. Let the idiot dig his
own hole.

'Michael runs a small games company. I think it was

going to float at one time, huh, Michael?'

Cicero nodded. 'That's true.'

'But then it didn't happen. Funnily enough, Blakely's
new software division rolled out its own line,' Ernie said,
grinning.

Felicity gazed over at them triumphantly.

'Yes. No hard feelings,' she purred. 'Actually I think
it's just wonderful to see the small businessmen and their
staff' - here she shot a look at Diana - 'at industry
events.'

'I hope you're not thinking of going back into
publishing.' Ernie slipped an arm ostentatiously around
Felicity as he said this. He was ruffled by how classy
Diana had managed to look. Felicity was starting to
annoy him with her endless shopping and jewellery
buying. His fucking useless staff weren't coming up with
the sales and the board was starting to ask him pointed
questions. But what the luck. He was still a giant
compared to this jock sitting in front of him. 'There's a
non-compete clause in your contract. Or have you
forgotten? I can have my lawyers give you a call, if you
like.'

Diana held her breath. Ernie was going to go after
them with all guns blazing.

'I assure you I have forgotten nothing,' Michael said,
with a precision that made Diana shudder. 'Not the fact
that you lied to me and stole my company from me and
cheated me out of a million dollars. Nor the fact that you


33x

started a games company and poached my people at a
cost that cannot possibly have been profitable for you--'
'Hey. Business is business.'

Michael ignored him and continued, quite calmly,
'And certainly not the clause that forbade me from going
into publishing for a year. But that's not too much of a
problem for Imperial. Because I don't want anything to
do with the books any more. Imperial Games is surviving,
and we're going to thrive. With the help of Diana
Verity, your ex-wife, and our director.'

Diana smiled at Ernie and watched the emotions cross
his face; stupefaction, rage, apprehension ... she
watched Felicity freeze in her seat as though somebody
had dropped an icecube down her neck.

'I didn't know your company was so small,' Keith
Fanning, the Time journalist, said curiously.

'Oh, we're not.' Diana turned the full wattage of her
smile at him. 'Actually, with the way our second range
has been selling, especially our e-business, we're the
leading educational games software provider in the city.
In fact, we're the largest private company of our kind in
the northeast.'

'You can't grow much more, though,' Felicity blurted,
unable to contain herself. 'Ernie told me you needed
more money for expansion.'

'Oh, he did?' Michael grinned at Ernie as his woman
exposed his weakness. 'In fact we are considering a new
IPO in a year or so. It seems as.though Blakely's games
division isn't actually selling that well. I've got no idea
why. You guys have good talent over there. It used to be
ours.'

Ernie scowled. 'Our division is doing just fine.' He
gave a crocodile smile to the powerful journalist. 'I
wouldn't believe everything you hear from the
competition.'

'Sound advice,' Diana said sweetly. 'I'd say, if you're


33z

interested, you should check with the retailers and Net
suppliers. They should be able to give you some accurate
numbers.'

Felicity looked with dismay at Ernie.

'But really, enough business.' Michael lifted the wine
bottle. 'Would anybody like a little Merlot?'


Michael was amazing, Diana thought.

He led her onto the dance floor after dinner, his arm
round her waist and, to her amazement, started to do an
expert tango with her. Her skin blazed when he dipped
her in his arms, her weight as nothing. My God, she
thought, he's so strong. His muscles were like steel knots
compared to Brad's. She felt the slow, betraying pulse of
blood fill her nipples. Thank heavens the velvet was
thick. She tried not to look into his eyes as he spun her
round. He had made mincemeat of Ernie, just cut him up
into little shreds and left him there quivering. When
Michael had extended his hand to Diana and asked her to
dance, Ernie and Felicity had been quarrelling publicly.

'You took me out here to talk business?' she
whispered.

He shook his head. 'Just to dance. If that's OK by you.'
Diana felt her breath coming a bit raggedly. She was
burning up for him. Was there any chance, she wondered,
that he still wanted her? That he could actually fall
for her?

'Diana,' a voice said.

Michael pulled her upright rnd close to his chest, close
enough to feel those full breasts press against his shirt,
then let her go. He felt a wave of anger rock him, but
held himself in check. Brad Bailey, in the flesh. He noted
the diamond pinkie ring, the very expensive shoes. Bailey
was tall, tanned and it looked like he actually bleached
his teeth.

'Brad, this is Michael Cicero, my boss,' Diana looked


333

flushed. Michael wondered why she would react to this
vanilla pudding that way, 'my escort tonight. I didn't
know you were coming.'

'I wasn't, but you told me you'd be here, so I picked up
a table at the last minute,' Brad said. He turned to
Michael. 'Cicero, wasn't it? Nice to meet you. I'll be

taking Diana home now. Thanks for looking after her.'
'We were in the middle of a dance,' Michael said.
Brad shrugged and he caught a whiff of aftershave.
'Diana doesn't really enjoy dancing. She prefers quiet
dinners.'

Diana started to open her mouth and Michael snapped.
He really wasn't interested in hearing her back up Mr
Moneybags.

'I know what you mean. I got to go myself,' he said.
'My girl needs to get intimate a couple of times a night.

Most of them do. I don't want to keep her waiting.'
'I ... see,' Brad said, discomfited.

Diana flushed. 'Could you take me home, please,
Brad?'

She held out her hand and walked away from Michael
without another word.

334


Chapter 3 7


My girl needs to get intimate a couple of times a night. Why not just say you're going home to fuck her? I hate
him, I hate him, Diana thought, the way he tricks you
into feeling something for him and then instantly hits you
with that attitude to women. I hate to keep her waiting. Was that the way he'd talked to his buddies about her when they were dating? She prickled with embarrassment.
She still wanted Michael a couple of times a night
and a couple of times each day, too. All he'd had to do
was to walk into her office and cup his hands over the
globes of her ass, sometimes less than that, sometimes
just shoot a look at her pussy, for Diana to feel primed
for him, hot, almost panting.

He cheapens everything, she thought, bitterly. I
thought I was special. He acts just that way with Tina
when nobody's looking, I bet.

'Where are we going?.' Brad asked.

Diana looked up with a start. She had been thrusting
through the crowd, smiling tightly at the movers and
shakers, seething inside. She had forgotten Brad was with

her.

He was looking down at her. A'man that treats me
with ultimate respect, Diana thought. Good-looking.
Good family. Prestigious. And hugely rich.

'Let's go back to your place,' she suggested.

She swooped down on a waiter walking past with a
fresh tray of champagne and grabbed a flute, tilting it
back down her throat in a single gulp. Funny, she felt like


335

Cinderella at the end of the ball, even though her finery
had not turned to rags and she was leaving with the
handsome prince.

But this needed doing. It was time. After all, she had
been dating him for months.

'Really?' Brad asked, his blue eyes lighting up. 'My
driver is waiting outside.'

He looked like a kid who had been told Christmas was
coming, as eager and enthusiastic as a puppy dog. Then
he checked himself with a visible effort of will. 'Of course
I mean ... we'll have a nightcap.'

'That's right,' Diana said, firmly. The champagne
warmed her the way it always did. She felt courageous.
'A nightcap and maybe something more.'


Brad's limo was not a hired ride like the one Michael
would be taking back to that little tramp of his. It was a
twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week convenience whose
drivers worked in shifts.

'He'll be ready to take you home whenever you want,'

Brad assured her, as the man bowed, holding open the

'door for Diana.

She smiled gently at him. 'We'll see when that is.'
Brad's home was immensely luxurious. In a cramped
city barely five miles long and three miles wide supporting
millions of people, space was at a premium; yet Brad
Bailey had a large garden, an entrance hall with an
ornamental fountain playing over real Italian marble, and
a servant's apartment in the basement. There were five
bedrooms and three bathrooms, a library - how Diana
had always longed for a house with a real, old-fashioned
library - a beautiful roof terrace with a Japanese-inspired
Zen-style garden, and modern reception rooms hung
with Cubist paintings and a Picasso.

'This place is beautiful,' she told him, as a butler 336


wearing modern chinos and a Ghandi-style jacket - took
her pale-grey pashmina wrap and hung it up.

'Thank you. I got it for peanuts from a Wall Street
arbitrageur who got caught with his fist in the till.' Brad
shrugged. 'Benefits of being in real estate.'

Diana wondered what 'peanuts' meant in this context.
Probably about the entire worth of her ex-husband.

'Let's go upstairs to the bar. We'll fix our own drinks,

Jenkins,' Brad said to the help.

'Very good, Mr Bailey.'

Brad ushered Diana up the black stone staircase, laid
with soft red carpet. 'After you.'

The bar was, as Brad put it, his little indulgence. In a
house which had been decorated at huge expense to be
clean and Euro-modern - sofas from Cerruti, Danish
chairs, nothing but dark polished floors and clean simple
lines - Brad had kept one room away from the clutches of
his exclusive design firm. The bar was an exercise in
seventies retro-chic. Fully equipped, it featured huge
furry rugs on the floor, fake bear skins, and large chrome
bar stools with cherry-red leather. Diana wondered what
she could do here if it was her house to go over. It was a
stunning property. It definitely needed a woman's touch,
though.

'What can I get you? Champagne? We have Cristal,

Taittinger ros6, Krug, Veuve Grande Dame ...'

'Jack Daniels and Coke,' Diana said.

She felt the need to get bombed. Fucking Michael. This
would show him, she thought.- Let him go back downtown
and bang the hell out of Tina" Armis. She was up
here, being courted, and she was going to have a good
time.

Brad raised an eyebrow. 'You're in a party mood.'

'Why shouldn't I be?' Diana demanded, a touch
belligerently.

He held up his hands. 'No reason. It's just funny


337

Before I met you, I used to take out girls, sometimes bring
them back here. And they would pick at lettuce leaves all
night and then order a Perrier. It drove me nuts.'

He handed her a glass full of golden liquor and poured

a splash of black Coke into it. It was almost undrinkable,

but she sipped at it anyway.

'Well, they were auditioning,' Diana told him. 'It's a
classic good-girl ploy. They were auditioning to be your
wife. I bet you they ate before they went out to dinner.
It's reverse competition. The girl that eats least at the
table wins.'

Brad laughed aloud. God, she was so funny and
enchanting. Having her here was like holding the winning
ticket in the lottery and having the delicious
anticipation of cashing it in.

'Can I be honest with you?'

Diana took a big slug of her JD. 'Hell yes. All the boys

are being honest this evening. Why not you?'

'When I first met you I knew who you were and I came

after you.'

'Well, I knew that.'

'No, hear me out.' He looked a little shifty. 'I had

stayed single for about as long as I could. You know, one
day a man wakes up and he knows it's time to get
married, to settle down to get himself an heir. And then,
if you're a man like me, you want the best. Since I was
small, I've been used to the best.'

'I'd never have guessed.' Diana beamed, pleased with

her own wit.

'You were famous. You were English, you had a classy
reputation. The way you handled the thing with your ex
husband was wonderful. No press interviews, no

National Enquirer exposes.'

'As if I would.'

'Well, a man in my position needs to know that if the

shit comes down, there won't be any scandal. I saw a


338

woman who'd been through the worst that can happen to
a society wife and who had kept her mouth shut. Even
though you somehow lost out on his money.'

Diana straightened. 'Quite a test,' she said evenly.
'But you passed. And then when I saw you, it turned
from being.., a... socially proper decision into being a
personal one. You are just so breathtaking. And you kept
me at arm's length. You know how long it's been since I
had to chase a woman?'

'I don't think you've ever had to chase anything,'
Diana said.

'That's pretty much true.' Brad was unapologetic. 'I
never have. But the result is I am head over heels,

incredibly, amazingly, utterly in love with you, Diana.'
She tossed back the rest of her drink.
'Let's go to bed,' Diana said.


The master bedroom was a fantasy. The flooring was
warm chocolate-brown marble, the rugs subtle shades of
cream and ivory. The bed in the centre of the room was
suspended from a pole made of clear glass, so that it
seemed to float above the floor. It was draped with rich
satin and silk sheets, down pillows and soft comforters.
Diana stared at it. It looked like the most comfortable
thing she had ever seen. Sunk deep into a corner of the
marble was a whirlp6ol bath the size of a small
swimming pool, with discreet little bottles from Czech & Speaker lined up alongside it.

Brad steered her gently towards the bed.

'You're the kind of woman who ought to have things
like this,' he whispered. Diana felt his breath hot in her
ear, playing against the nape of her neck. The buzz from
the liquor was stealing over her, making her languid,
making her bones feel like they could just pour flat onto
the bed. 'You work, but there's no need for it. You'


339

should throw nice dinners, tennis parties at my place in

the Vineyard. Decorate. Have babies.'

He punctuated each phrase with a kiss, laid soft as

down on her neck and the hollows of her throat.

'It can be like it was before for you,' he murmured.

'Better. Because you'll have the kind of husband a

woman like you deserves.'

'Husband?' Diana muttered, dreamily.

Brad scooped her into his arms and laid her on the bed,
reddening from her weight. Then his hands were on her
back, seeking out her zipper, delicately peeling the clothes
from her like a museum director unwrapping a priceless
artefact.

'That's what I said,' he whispered, and moved to kiss

the slopes of her warm, freckled breasts.


The scent of breakfast woke her. Diana propped herself
up, her head throbbing, and tried to deal with the cold
winter light streaming through Brad's vast French windows. He was already up and dressed, standing at the
doorway taking a breakfast tray from a maid. She
smelled fresh roasted vanilla coffee, saw crisp bacon and
a fluffy egg-white and fine-herb omelette. There was also
a pitcher of squeezed blood oranges, ice-cold spring
water and a warm, sun-ripened peach.

Brad walked across the floor and laid the tray across

her knees.

'No need to get up,' he said..

'But there is. I'm late for work already,' Diana said,
dismayed.

'Sure. Your office,' he said, a little patronisingly. 'I

know. I took the liberty of laying out some work things
for you on that chair over there. I had one of my contacts
at Women's Wear Daily guess your size for me, in the
hope that one day you'd stay over here.'

'I'm impressed.'


34o

'You should be. I plan ahead. I gotta go, honey.' Brad
kissed her on the tip of her nose. 'I have a closing on a
luxury block in the Village. Twelve mill. Look, last night
was just incredible. You think about what I said, OK? I
want us to be married. It's the right thing for both of us.'

He smiled at her and walked out, giving her a little
wave.

Diana poured a cup of the coffee, set the rest of the
tray aside and staggered towards the bathroom set to the
side. Brad's power shower had six jets and a range of
shampoos hand-blended in Switzerland. It was inlaid
with pale-blue stone studded with small brass stars
everywhere. Like showering in heaven, she thought.
Anxiously she checked her face. No spots, despite
sleeping in her make-up. Diana showered, then grabbed a
towel and dried herself, slurping down a little more of the
steaming brew and letting the fog in her brain clear.

Last night was ... what? She had gotten drunk, and
obviously had sex with Brad. Except the problem was she
didn't remember it. Diana pulled off the towel and
glanced down at her body. There were none of the
scratches and bruises she'd had after a night with
Michael. If they had had sex, it must have been sweet,
polite sex. She wondered if she'd actually passed out,
from the booze, in the middle of it.

Possibly. Knowing men, though, he would only take
that as a compliment.

She walked over to the chair, and looked at the clothes
he had left. A smart green Prada suit and a crisp white
shirt; Woolford hose and sleek Chanel mules. Very nice.
Hurriedly she tugged them on and regarded her reflection

in the full-length Swedish mirror. A perfect fit, too.
Money buys everything, she thought.

Her life had come full circle. Marrying Ernie for ...
for money. And getting divorced for naivety, for pride.


341

Now she actually had a job and because she hadn't

chased money, money had come chasing her.

Elspeth would be thrilled. Claire would cheer from the

rafters.

Natasha, Jodie and Felicity wouldn't know what had

hit them.

Diana brushed out her hair with the Mason-Pearson
hairbrush laid out by the side of her clothes and rushed
downstairs. The butler, who had let her in, was in the
hall and bowed slightly when she appeared.

'Jenkins has the car waiting for you, madam.' He

handed her a small Louis Vuitton case. 'Mr Bailey took

the opportunity of having your things packed up.'

Incredulously, Diana unzipped the rich-smelling

leather. There were her pearls, her dress, her lingerie and
her shoes, beautifully wrapped between crisp sheets of
acid-free tissue paper.

'Thank you,' she said.

'If you'll step this way, madam,' he suggested, opening

the elevator to the underground garage.

The journey downtown was fast, but it seemed to take

for ever.

The driver was blessedly silent. Relaxing against the
comfortable back seat, Diana took advantage of the
small silver coffee pot and cup prepared for her and
watched the tall buildings of Park Avenue slip past. The
noise and bustle of the city was converted to silent images
in her sound-proofed luxury, and, she could rest her head
against the tinted windows with no fear that anybody
could look inside at her.

How comfortable, how easy, life as Mrs Brad Bailey

would be.


Jenkins let her out right in front of the office. There
weren't that many limos in that part of town. The
passersby rubbernecked with their Starbucks muffins and


34z

deli coffee. Diana thanked the driver and rushed into the
office.

'Morning, Miss Verity.' Ellen, her assistant, looked up
at her anxiously. 'I left a few messages at your house. I'm
sorry. I was a bit worried.'

'That's OK, I should have called in,' Diana said. She
wasn't about to explain further. She fought back a blush;
what she did in her private time was her business. 'I'm
just going to see Mr Cicero. If you could get my call sheet
ready?'

'But Miss Verity--'

Diana ignored her plaintive call and marched inside.
There was Tina, sitting in front of Michael's office
wearing a tight jersey dress which left nothing to the
imagination. If you liked string beans, Diana thought
viciously.

'Where's Michael?' she asked.

'He told me he was taking a day off,' Tina said, smiling
sweetly at Diana. 'He asked me to ask you to look after
the business today.'

'Oh.' Diana was floored. She'd had a thousand excuses
ready and now he was taking a day off? That was like the
Pope taking a day off. It just didn't happen.

'Miss Verity,' Tina said, 'I wonder if I could have a
little chat with you?'

343


Chapter 3 8


Felicity looked around her dinner table and smiled tightly
at her guests. She gave Mort and Natty Zuckerman a
little wave, nodded her head so her earrings sparkled, and
smoothed down her little black Gucci dress. It was a
successful do by anybody's standards. There was Lola
Givens, the Met's latest black opera diva, Charles Lenten,
the plastic surgeon, Amica, the supermodel, and the usual
gaggle of business tycoons and politicians. Monsieur
Letrec, Felicity's new cook, had done an excellent job.
The duck confit and orange salad was a success, as was
the green tea sorbet, the vintage Krug, and the Chateau
Lafite ;t 96z.

But the atmosphere was sadly muted.

Annoyed, she looked over at Ernie. His voice was just

that bit too loud, braying over the table. They had fought
several times this week about his manners. Felicity was
tired of smoothing over Ernie's rough edges. Despite her
little Rolodex files on every one of his acquaintances,
their wives, likes and dislikes, it was getting harder to
cover up for his racist jokes and off-colour speeches.
Ernie had never been subtle, and since the troubles at
Blakely's, things had become worse. She sipped her water
- no wine, somebody had to be there to manage things if
Ernie got drunk.

'Your ring is wonderful.'

Felicity smiled over at Elise Davenport, the latest

young wife of Horace, the paper-mill king. She lifted one

slim hand and flashed her diamond. Three full carats and


344

a surrounding band of rubies. Yes, there was the
compensating factor of Ernie's pocketbook. Despite their
little spats, she was getting some wonderful toys out of
this. Ernie had to spend to hold on to quality, she
reminded herself.

'Thank you. Tiffany's designed it specially.'

Elise nodded. 'It's so wonderful of your fiance, especially
with the way things are.'

Felicity's radar prickled. 'Have you heard something,
dear?'

The word was all over the street. Felicity scorned
business - vulgar talk of money, she liked to say - but the
wives network was a more accurate barometer of current
worth than Barron's.

Apparently Ernie was in some kind of trouble. His big
name writers were still selling, but not enough to cover
the money spent on promoting them. Then there was the
computer games thing. Felicity bit her lower lip. She had
so looked forward to rubbing Ernie's new venture into
Diana Verity's face, but it wasn't working out that way.
The staff, brought in at huge expense from Imperial,
chafed under Ernie's strict working conditions. Suits, ties
and signing-in didn't suit them. Their work was substandard
and the code-checkers had missed the bugs.
Games were delayed, faulty and often boring. After the
first burst of heavily advertised sales success, the book
problem was repeating itself here.

Ernie had told her last night that Blakely's board was
worried.

'Please, darling,' Felicity snapped. She had the impulse
to reach for a cigarette. 'I'm so uninterested in your work
problems. Why don't you fix them and leave me to run
the house?'

She flounced off before he could bend her ear. All Ernie
had to do was keep things going just the way they were.
Was that too much to ask?


345

Felicity was beginning to wonder just how deep the
slide would go.

Anxiously she waited for Elise's reply.

'Oh, nothing.' Her guest forked a tiny radichio leaf
into her peach-glossed mouth. 'And anyway, I'm sure it'll
all soon be fixed.'

Felicity scowled and summoned the waitress over with
a snap of her red-taloned fingers. Maybe she would take
some champagne after all.


'Of course, Tina,' Diana said. 'We can go into Mr
Cicero's office. Did he tell you where he was going, by
the way?'

The younger girl pushed herself up and opened the
door to Michael's office. A waft of Chanel No. 5 hit
Diana. It reeked, as if Tina had taken to emptying an
entire bottle over herself.
'No,' she said, shutting the door. 'He didn't have that
much time this morning, Diana - do you mind if I call
you Diana?'

'No,' Diana said, gritting her teeth.

She did mind, she had worked hard to be made
director of this company. But she didn't want Tina to
think she was picking on her, because of Michael. Then
Tina might get the silly idea that Diana resented her. 'Go
ahead,' she said.

I don't like you because you're a vacuous, skinny, itsybitsy
bimbo, Diana thought. It's got nothing to do with
Michael.

'Well - Diana,' Tina said sweetly, 'this morning he excuse
me - uh - wanted another round so he left the
apartment a little late. He told me just to hold the fort,
and ask you to take care of the firm today. He forgot
about his appointment. It can happen, when two people
are very much in love.'

Suddenly Diana felt a crunching pain in her temples.


346

She thanked God Brad had magicked up this smart little
Prada suit. She thought she could hardly bear it if she had
to listen to this crap and not look her best.

Imagine Michael actually missing a business appointment
for sex. Tina must be special. Maybe he really was
in love with her.

She felt a stab of pain in her heart and nodded briskly
to conceal it. OK, I'm not dumb, Diana thought. I have
feelings for Michael. I could have loved him. But his
attitude made it impossible. So really, I ought to be
pleased he's with someone else.

It's just that I don't approve of his choice, that's all.
She tried to examine Tina objectively. She was beautiful,
slender ... and young and idiotic. Despite herself the
annoyance with Michael bubbled up. So that's what he
wanted, right? A woman who would never snap at him,
never challenge him, never offer him any kind of rivalry?
Michael wanted a low-rent version of the kind of
wife...

The kind of wife I was to Ernie, a nasty little voice in
her head added.

Diana flinched. She looked at Tina's coltish beauty,
and the thought of Michael's strong, rough hands on her
made her dizzy. Did he bend Tina's slim body forwards
and thrust that thick, insistent cock into her the way he
had done with Diana? Did he wake up in the mornings
and put his hands on the side of her head, pulling her
down to him? Did he make Tina come to the office
without panties, the way he had commanded Diana to
do, so that she would be openand ready for him
whenever he chose to take her?

	Stop it.

	'That's nice to hear that
		two are happy,' she said.

		you

Diana took command of herself and made her tone as
sincere as she could. 'And what was it you wanted to talk
to me about?'


347

'Well, that was it.' The young girl looked a bit
awkward.

'I'm sorry, I don't understand. What was it?' Diana

asked coolly.

'About Michael and me. I thought - I thought maybe
you--'

She looked over at Diana, who sat stony-faced.
Damn. Maybe she'd been wrong and Miss Verity didn't
have the hots for Michael. Maybe she didn't care. Tina
started to blush and stammer.

'Maybe you felt it wasn't right,' she said lamely.
Diana stood up. 'I really don't care what Michael does
outside of office hours. He's president and I'm director,'
she added, with subtle emphasis. '-We're friends but we
don't really see each other socially. Our work lives don't

leave any time.'

'Uh, OK.'

Tina stood up again, all gangly legs and bright-blue eye
shadow.

'If you could bring me some coffee in my office that

would be wonderful,' Diana said.

'Are you seeing anybody?' the American girl blurted

'out. 'Someone special, I mean?'

'As a matter of fact, I am.' Diana smiled confidently.

'Brad Bailey, of Bailey Realty.'

Tina's mouth rounded in awe. 'Then those rumours in

the papers are true? You're actually dating him?'

'I wouldn't know. I don't read the tabloids,' Diana said

icily. She levelled Tina with a look.

'I'll bring you that coffee right away,' Tina muttered. Bitch, she thought, flouncing out. Always dressing so
fancy and acting so calm. Like dating Brad Bailey was no
big deal. Well, one day she would definitely get hers. Tina
just hoped she was there to see it.


Michael arrived back in the office at five forty. It was


348

already cold and dark out. A light flurry of snow was
falling in Hell's Kitchen, covering the sandwich wrappers
and discarded Coke cans before almost instantly turning
into grey slush. He felt little of the chill. He had spent the
day on Wall Street in warm, air-conditioned offices,
juggling figures which made him think he was dreaming.

They were falling over themselves to give him financing.
Even with Diana running the publishing side, the
bankers adored Imperial. Their reputation and sales
increased month by month. And from the start, he had
kept the overheads ruthlessly low.

He found he wanted nothing so much as to sit down
with Diana and talk it all through.

He marched straight to her office and found Diana

handing Tina a sheaf of faxes.

'Hi, Michael,' she said.

'Hi. What are you doing? Can you drop it?'
'Nothing Tina can't handle,' she said. 'Why?'

'I can do the rest of Diana's faxes,' Tina chimed in.
'Good.' He turned to her, absently. 'I won't be able to
make the theatre tonight. We have to meet late. Oh, and
Tina, it's Ms Verity in the office, please.'

He crooked a finger and Diana meekly followed him

out.


'You've been acting very strangely today,' she said, as he
held open the cab door for her.

Michael settled on the black leather seat with the
standard-issue rip in it. 'East Seventeenth at Irving Plaza.
Feel like some sushi?'

'Sounds good.' Diana smiled at him. His mood was
infectious. 'Would it be asking to much to want to know
where you've been, boss?'

Tll tell you everything over a bottle of sake. Maybe
two.'


349

They pulled up at Yama's, a Gramercy favourite. It was
early yet so they managed to skip the queues. Michael
found a small table in the corner, ordered a large box
with everything and two bottles of warm, clear rice wine.

He poured a thimbleful for Diana and gave it to her.
'I've been downtown.'

'Why does that not surprise me?' Diana said, knocking
back her drink.

'After you left yesterday I was pretty mad.' He held up
one hand. 'No, wait, OK. I know I owe you an apology. I
acted like an idiot.' Michael forced himself to add, 'I'm
sure Brad Bailey's a great guy. I hope you'll be happy
with him.'

'Like you are with Tina,' Diana said softly.

'Right.'

There was a moment's awkward pause.

'Anyway, I was stopped by Art Jankel. You know who
he is?'

'JanCorp Entertainment?' Diana asked, leaning forwards
on her bench. 'The conglomerate? He runs them.
They do toys and games and records.'

'Right.' Michael speared a yellowtail tuna roll with his
chopsticks. 'He's a serious player. He asked me if it was
true that we wanted financing. Then he took me off for a
late-night dinner. We talked about Imperial, the profit
margin, the website, the IPO... everything. Then he asks
me to go have a meeting with Merrill Lynch, his
investment bankers. They want .to invest in us. Give us
office space and funding.'

'That's what you had with Ernie.'

'I told him that. He said that he would pay the bill of
any lawyer we cared to appoint. We can check and
double-check. I also told him I would give JanCorp no
more than a forty per cent stake. He agreed to this.'

'What's our funding?' Diana asked, half holding her
breath. Around her, the room seemed to freeze.


350

Michael grinned. 'Funding's not a gift, but he's looking
to capitalise us in return for a forty per cent stake at three
million dollars.'

They ate a delicious dinner and got quietly drunk.
Diana alternated her sake with green tea, but it didn't
puncture her high much. At that price they would be able
to commission good writers, good illustrators, good
marketing men and a competent sales force. There would
be no overheads, as a floor at JanCorp was part of the
deal.

'He said he'd watched how we grew this place from the
ground up, and then rebuilt after the IPO thing,' Michael
told her, clicking his porcelain sake thimble against hers.
'He thinks with some real money we can spread our

wings. And I agree with him.'

The too,' Diana said.

'Look.' Michael stared across at her, his dark eyes
warm. 'We've wasted a lot of time in pointless sniping.
We make an excellent team. We need to concentrate on
that.'

'I agree. You built something pretty amazing, and you
gave me a chance to be part of it. I'm grateful for that,'
Diana half whispered. Tears were prickling in her eyes;
she attributed it to the sake.

'I'd like us to be friends,' Michael said. 'This will be
hard work. We'll be in. it together.'

'Sure. We should spend some time together. If you

have an evening free from Tina.'
'For you, anytime,' he said.
Diana looked at his broad chest,'the thickness of his
thighs spread over the bench, the hardness of his muscles
sliding under the skin.

'This is going to be great,' she said.

And it would be. The question was, why did she want
to cry so badly?

They talked for four hours. Diana watched Micha61


35

blazing with excitement, scribbling his plans on the backs
of napkins. She was amazed at how badly she wanted
this to work. He promised her a rise in salary, even a
small slice of the company. But what she wanted was a
final opportunity to prove she could do it.

She would go from being a director of a Morn and Pop
operation to a hotshot executive.

My God, Diana thought, catching herself. I'm actually
thinking like a businesswoman. It was no longer about
recovering her former status. Not even about showing up
Felicity and Natasha. This time it was about who she had
decided to be.

I love him for giving me this chance, Diana thought.
Michael rolled up his sleeves suddenly. His forearm
was tanned and covered with wiry black hair, his hand
gripped the pen like it was a dagger. Diana gazed at his
muscular upper arms, his biceps pushing out at the thick
cotton of his shirt. Brad's arms were skinny compared to
Michael's. He was much prettier, of course. His features
were more even, his teeth straighter, his nose had never
been busted up in a fight.

Diana felt her pussy mercilessly tighten and slick up.

'The wave of desire for him was so intense she wanted to
run to the bathroom and stroke herself, just for a little
release. But she had decided to try to be friends. Blushing,
she pushed herself up.

'Could you run me home?' she murmured.

35z


Chapter 39


Diana flung herself into her work.

It wasn't difficult to do. Expanding Imperial was
harder than it looked, even for Michael. She hunted for
new talent with a bigger budget; she had to meet
headhunters, design salary packages, and reassure all
their smaller buyers that the new company would look
after them. But her work was as nothing compared to the
eighteen-hour days Michael was putting in. Sometimes he
slept in their chaotic new offices. It was the company's big
chance, and Michael wasn't going to let it slip. He took
her for breakfast, took her to lunch, sometimes to dinner,
and told her his plans. She knew Brad resented the time
she spent with him. But business, for Diana, came first.

'You said you needed time to consider,' Brad complained
one night over dinner in Martha's Vineyard.
'When are you going to find the time, exactly? It's Cicero
this, Cicero that. I practically have to schedule an
appointment with Ellen just to get in to see you.'

'I know.' Diana put her soft, manicured hand over his.
She hadn't been back to his bed since that drunken night.
She told him she wanted to wait until marriage. She
couldn't quite make the jump, coul'dn't quite commit. Daily she asked herself what was wrong with her. He
was the absolute top prize on the New York dating scene
since poor, doomed JFK Junior had married Carolyn
Bessette. Diana attended operas, jetted off to gamble in
Atlantic City, took ski breaks in Aspen; she knew
Westchester Airport, where Brad's father kept the family'


353

jet, better than Grand Central Station. Claire and Elspeth
cooed over each flesh triumph, each new paparazzi snap
in the papers. They were hovering like friendly hawks,
trying to find something that would motivate Brad to
produce a ring. If they only knew he'd proposed months
ago, Diana thought, I would never get a second's peace.

'It's not for ever. It's just while the merger gets off the
ground.'

Art Jankel had allotted them the ninth floor of the
JanCorp colossus on Sixth Avenue. Covered all the way
up in polished black marble, the JanCorp building
dominated midtown, it had fountains and a tree in the
lobby itself. The driven, somewhat anal, JanCorp executives
who rushed in and out in their three-thousand
dollar suits, clutching their briefcases and notes, were
shocked to pass the Imperial crew slouching into work at
ten in Metallica T-shirts and baggy jeans.

'It better not be for ever. Because I don't have that long
to wait,' Brad said, giving her his full-wattage white

smile. 'There are other candidates for your position.'
'Hundreds, I expect.'

'It's just that none of them have your style.' Brad
"sighed. 'So tell me how next week's looking. Can you

squeeze me in between power breakfasts?'

She tried. But mostly she kept breakfasts for Michael.
Building up Imperial was becoming one of the most
enjoyable experiences of her life. Funny, Diana thought,
looking back, when she'd had such mean little pleasures always
being the best dressed, first on the guest list, the
girl with the coolest backstage pass and hottest Prada
backpack - she had never known what real satisfaction
felt like, what it meant to look down from her sky-high
offices in a palette of forest green, cream and chocolate
towards downtown and remember how she had cleaned
an airless, cramped little apartment just to help grind out
the rent. The 'joy' of snagging a rich husband could not


354

be compared to the thrill she got from finding the right
marketing guy, or a retired sales king who was so
pumped up to get a second chance that at fifty-five he
outworked every twenty-four-year-old in the industry.

'You shouldn't be surprised that you're doing well,'
Michael told her one afternoon. They were standing
outside Yankee Stadium, looking up at the giant bat
dominating the forecourt. Michael was determined to get
her to understand baseball. He bought her great seats just
behind home plate and forced her to eat hot-dogs and
down Coors Light; he loved the way she refused to dress
down, even for a game. Every other chick in the place
wore a sweatshirt and chinos, casual gear for a New
York spring. But not Diana. Today she was in a long
pink linen skirt with crisp pleats and a tiny shell top in
rose cashmere with a matching cardigan. She was
completely made up, of course, though she kept it light:
clover on her cheeks, a light gloss on her lips, and a touch
of bone-white eyeliner under soft beige shadow that
made her look bright and alert. Not forgetting the breath
of perfume, lily of the valley, he thought; and the string
of real pearls around her neck. Her dark hair, sleek and
glossy, fell gently just to her shoulders, flipping up at the
end. 'You have a great knack of putting things together.
Putting the right people together is half of what business
is.'

'And what's the other half?' Diana asked, watching a
young man the teenage girls were calling out to as though
he were a rock star of some kind. He was swinging that
baseball bat around in the air like it was a Cheerleader's
baton. She had no idea how they ever hit the ball with
those things. It was a bit like rounders, only boys played
it.

'Coming up with the right product. Which is where I
come in. You need a vision. I don't care if you're
manufacturing toilet paper; you better be passionate'


355

about toilet paper. And you better come up with a better
sold, better-presented, more comfortable goddamn toilet
paper. Because that'll make you a millionaire.'

'Do we have to sit here and talk about lavatory paper?'
Diana asked plaintively. 'I'm trying to eat.'

Michael took a gigantic bite of his hot-dog, smothered

with chillies and onions and mustard.

'Pretty good, huh?'

'Not really.' She nibbled at a corner of her bun.

'You're lame.' Michael pointed at the young man with

the bat. 'That's Derek Jeter. He's one of their best--'
'Batsmen.'

'Hitters. And that's Roger Clemens. Best pitcher in

baseball, but he's been having a lousy year.'

'Cricket's much more relaxing.'

'Yeah, eleven guys standing in a field and nothing
going on.'

'Nonsense.' She glanced over at him and saw the dark
pants and plain white shirt on the barrel chest, the lust
for life that he evinced everyday. 'Cricket is like war.
You and Sam watch your enemy slowly being demolished.
He comes back with a new force, you cut the legs
out of that one. It can be vicious. Exhilarating.' She
shrugged. 'Unless you support England, in which case it's
usually embarrassing, but even they can surprise you
with a mammoth win.'

'I'll take your word for it.' Michael dragged his eyes
away from Diana's chest. 'Tell me how the Count Cloud
Nine series is coming along ...'

She relaxed as they talked through the business of the
week. Nobody could hear what they were talking about,

			could spill their plans to Blakely's. They

no

	corporate

		spy

were not going to let Ernie Foxton win this time.

And he would come after them. If they gave him an

inch.

Michael told her not to worry about Ernie. He said he


356

had it taken care of. And Diana had learned that when
Michael said something was getting done, it got done.
His word was more than a promise, it was a fact. So she
put Ernie out of her mind.

'I'd like to see you tonight,' he said to her when they
rose at the seventh-inning stretch. 'I'm hoping to launch
an online travel guide. Written by real New Yorkers and
aimed at kids. Books can't offer real-time videos of your
destination.'

Diana grinned. 'You could make a lot of money with
that.'

'That's part of my plan,' Michael admitted. 'So,
tonight, OK? My place.'
'Won't Tina mind if I intrude?' Diana made herself

ask.

Through Christmas and New Year and Valentine's
Day - when three hundred red roses from Brad had been
delivered to her desk, making the entire ninth floor smell
like a florist's - Michael had still dated Tina. The great
advantage to having a bigger office was that Diana
hardly ever saw her now. On the rare occasions when she
had to go to see Michael, she tried to time her visits so
Tina would be having lunch.

Once or twice, though, she hadn't been able to miss
her. And the signs were not reassuring. Tina had dropped
the itsy-bitsy skirts and. tight leather pants for almost
demure dresses. Diana noticed she was adapting herself
to Michael's taste. He was in favour of ladylike, funnily
enough, for a guy who was dating a bimbette. And Tina,
while not a smart girl, possessed a cegtain amount of low
animal cunning. I bet she's out in the bookstore right
now picking up Italian cookbooks and learning how to
serve Sambuca with the espresso, with three coffee beans
in the glass, she thought. But she pushed it down. She
couldn't let dislike for Tina Show. She was getting on so
well with Michael.


357

'Not at all. Actually I told her we'd be spending the
evening together. I have plans I want you to see. And the
fewer people who know about it, the better.'

'But you can trust Tina, right?' Diana asked.

She didn't know why she asked this. It was like being a

kid and having a loose tooth, and being unable to stop
teasing it with her tongue.

Michael looked at her with his dark eyes. 'Of course I

can. But this is business, not personal. I don't mix the

two. You know that.'

It felt like a slap. 'Of course.' She nodded quickly. 'I
couldn't agree with you more. Mixing is always a
mistake.'

They sat, and she switched her eyes to Tino Martinez,

who promptly belted a double down the left-field line.


'Just keep your fucking trap shut, all right?'

Ernie turned on Felicity. Her inane questions about
which wedding-cake design and which kind of fancy
lightbulb to use in the strings of lights she planned on
suspending over the ballroom ceiling were getting on his
nerves. He was trying to find some way he could cut costs
more, to improve the Blakely's bottom line just a little
bit, and she was bugging him yet again. 'I don't give a
fuck, darlin'? Understand?'

His thick cockney accent had returned at full force

under stress. 'I just want you to fuck off and give me
some peace. Just get out so I can'do my business, which is
what keeps you in jewels and fucking Maseratis.'

'I understand perfectly.' Felicity's brow did not crease;

she had recently popped down to Dr Wexler for an
injection of Botox, the poison that paralysed the muscles
in the forehead, making you unable to frown and giving
you a permanently surprised look. She had to fix Ernie
with a gimlet stare instead. 'You're trying to dig yourself


358

out of the hole the company is in. And you intend using

foul language in my presence. So I am going to leave.'
'Oh fucking dear. Boo fucking hoo,' Ernie snarled.
'Just make sure you complete your task properly ... darling. I wouldn't want you to have any difficulties
paying for our summer place.'

Privately, Felicity thanked heaven that she had had the
estate agent put the deed to that house in her name. Ernie
was so busy these days with the wretched little men
calling at the apartment, the endless faxes and the calls
from Italy in the middle of the night.., always fighting
with somebody and screaming at somebody else ... he
hadn't even noticed the few alterations her private lawyer
had put into the deal.

She wondered for a second if Diana Foxton had also
had these difficulties. How on earth had Diana reacted
when... Ernie had never actually fucked Jung-Li in front
of her, but with his present frame of mind, that was
probably coming. She hated Diana with total passion...
Diana who once again ruled the scene in New York, this
time without even trying. Brad Bailey was actually pursuing her. Brad! whom she, Felicity, had set her cap at
so firmly three years ago, only to be brutally rebuffed,
like most of the Manhattan girls. People had liked to say
he was gay, but the trouble was, he was seen with too
many women. He had been written off as a hopeless
bachelor.

And now wherever he went Diana was there at his
side. If Ernie had an excellent box for the opening night
at the Met, Diana was in a better one, usually with the
mayor or the governor, and oft one dreadful night had
been seen having drinks with Elspeth Merriman and the
First Lady ... She had the best table at every ball, she
lounged on the deck of the largest yacht, she was up there
with Mrs Astor, but she was sixty years younger.

And she wasn't trying. Felicity dreaded the day Diana's '


359

dinner parties, twice as glamorous and star-studded as
before, started up again - with herself, Jodie and Natasha
permanently off the guest list - but it had not come.
Diana was past the party-giving stage. She was said 'not
to have the time'. And what the hell did that mean? Felicity asked herself, defensively. As though running
some wretched company were so much more important
than organising the social life of one of New York's
premier publishing figures.

Except that Diana's company was no longer so wretched. Felicity had been forced to learn how to pay
attention to the business pages of the papers. The JanCorp merger had made Michael Cicero's company a what
was the term? - a player. Diana's books had burst
on the publishing scene with promotion, marketing and
sales clout behind them. Her ABCs and counting series
for infants was a huge success.

Ernie told her bitterly you could spend your way into
the charts, but making it last took more skill.

She stood and shook her head sorrowfully in Ernie's
direction, but he ignored her. She marched out of the
room and slammed the door. She was mad.

Nothing but a couple of emerald studs from Cartier
would make her feel better, Felicity decided, rather
viciously. And maybe a tennis bracelet, too.


Diana took a cab down to Michael's place. He had
moved into a SoHo loft, which .was fairly luxurious. She
noted the well-equipped gym set up next to the kitchen
on the first floor; the neat bedroom, the home office,
everything ranged out cleanly and simply. The colours
were dark green, burgundy and mahogany. In a city full
of teal, cream and variations of beige, Michael Cicero's
pad was uncompromisingly dark and masculine.

He had no paintings, just line drawings of the Roman
Forum and the Baths of Caracalla. The ornamentation


360

was limited to broken marble heads on display stands.
She saw instantly that they were genuine antiques.

'Come in,' Michael said, waving her inside. 'Good to
see you.'

'Yeah, it's been at least four hours,' Diana teased. She
strolled over to the largest head, that of a masculine, full
figured man with a beard and severe eyes. 'Who's this

guy? Could he have more testosterone?'
'That's the Emperor Hadrian.'
'Of Hadrian's Wall?'

'Uh-huh. He was a good commander. Consolidated the
Roman gains. A fighter.'

'Very masculine,' Diana said, approvingly.

Michael let his eyes run over her body. She was
wearing a simple, elegant light blue number by DKNY, a
dress in heavy silk that hugged her ass and her tits, yet

maddeningly covered everything up.

'Yes he was. He was also gay.'

Diana laughed. 'Rock Hudson was pretty masculine
and he was gay.'

'It doesn't stop you being a man. My first partner was
gay. Without Seth, I would never have gotten Green Eggs
off the ground.' Michael waved her over to the table in
the middle of the office. It was set with illustrations,
travel guides, sheets of numbers and a few cartons. 'I got
sushi again. Nothing but the best; no California rolls, just
octopus, squid---'

'Don't.' Diana tossed back her dark hair, and he felt
the first stirring in his groin. 'I can eat the stuff. I just hate
knowing what they put in it.'

'Then I'll pour the sake and we can get to it.'

They spent a few hours going over the new games, just
enough for Diana to understand what Michael wanted.
The important part of a session like this was for her to
understand his vision. Once She had clicked, she ran with
the ball.


36I

'Dorling Kindersley have the best maps and Insight

have the best snaps,' she told him. 'I can poach from both

and come up with something even better.'

Diana laid down her papers, aware that Michael was
gazing at her. The sun had set outside and his home was
lit with softly glowing lamps. She had drunk virtually
nothing, but she still felt lightheaded.

'I need to ask you something,' he said.

She felt a knot in her stomach. 'Fire away.' If he would

only stop staring at her. She had a tendency to imagine
his eyes on her breasts, which, inevitably got her hot,
made her nipples harden and set her belly on fire as if his
fingernails had raked lightly across it. And then who
knew what his eyes were doing?

'It's about Ernie. I've been watching him. Building up a
position in his stock.'

'A position in his stock,' Diana repeated. 'But Blakely's

is huge. You can't own that much.'

'Oh, I don't.' He gave her that trademark Cicero grin.

'I just own two per cent. Which is enough to guarantee
me rights to speak for five minutes at the next stockholders
meeting. He's in trouble. Real, serious trouble. He has
spent so hard on marketing and advances, his sales can
never match up. The games division is a joke - the
hackers can't work under those conditions, one of them
called me last week. In order to make the bottom line
look good, Ernie has taken to firing all the high-salary
employees and replacing them with cheaper ones.'

'Only the cheaper ones aren't as good.'

'Right. And books and games are leaking money. They

have a large market share and a profit margin of next to
nothing. Signor Bertaloni thinks his money went to a
flake. He's trying to bury the deal.' Michael smiled,
cruelly. He had such a handsome, almost callous mouth,
she thought. She was trying to listen to him, but her eyes
kept fixing themselves on his mouth.


36z

'Most of the business doesn't know how bad it is. I
thought I could help them to find out. We'll bury that
motherfucker.' He shrugged. 'Excuse my language. But
... he is your ex-husband.'

Michael stood up and walked behind her chair, and
Diana felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck lift. She
could sense his body, his muscles behind the cotton shirt,
close to her. She slicked up and shifted on her seat, biting
down on her lip.

'I couldn't care less about him,' Diana said. She tried to
say it, but it came out as a whimper. Frantically, she
cleared her throat. 'You can do whatever you like. I'll be
right there with you.'

'OK. Good.' Michael leant forward to clear away her
dirty plate. He found himself looking down directly at
those magnificent tits. Her skin was warm, silky. Was he
imagining it, or was her breathing coming short?

He snapped. Enough control. He pushed closer and
kissed her roughly on the lips.

363


Chapter 40


Diana shuddered. Her reaction was instant, total. There
could be no more lies, not even to herself. She moaned
lightly in the back of her throat, a soft, small sound,
ripped from her by his touch. Her pussy was moist, open
and wanting. There was none of the slight recoil, the
drawing back she felt in her skin when Brad tried to
touch her. Warm blood surged into her nipples, hardening
them into tight little pebbles, sensitive and aching so
that the soft silk of her bra was almost unbearable on
them.

Michael heard her. He instantly tipped back her chair

and scooped her up into his arms, letting the chair topple
to the floor. He cradled her weight like it was nothing to
him. Diana felt his kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her
neck. They were not soft. His teeth half-bit, tore at her.
Months and months of frustrated desire were unleashed
on her.

'Michael--' she whispered.

'Shut up,' he said, bluntly. 'Just be quiet. You don't

make a sound. I don't want to,hear it.'

He carried her upstairs and pushed open the door to

his bedroom, half shoving Diana inside. She stumbled in
front of him, then turned to face him. Michael pulled
down the dress from her shoulders, stripping her to the
waist, holding her eyes.

'You left me,' he said. His voice was thick with lust.

'You fucking left me. You made me wait for this.'

He tugged the silk bra off her breasts impatiently. They


364

were warm, swollen slightly. Michael held each one in his
hands, as though assessing their weight. Then he brushed
his thumb over the aching skin of her nipples. Diana felt
an electric shock of pleasure and lust, a silver chain
running from her breasts down to her belly, the soft
cradle of flesh right above her groin. Her nipples
hardened visibly.

Michael said, 'Maybe I wasn't the only one waiting.'
'I--' Diana started.
He shook his head. 'I told you not to speak. If you
make another sound I'm going to stop touching you.'

Then he lowered his dark head and flicked out his
tongue, circling lightly round the rosy skin, never quite
touching it, until she was biting her cheeks to keep herself
from begging him. Mutely, Diana lifted herself to him,
pressed herself into his hands. But Michael was cruel. He
slipped his hands away from her breasts down to her
butt, lifting his head to watch her face as he cupped and
kneaded it.

'You have such a great ass,' he murmured into her ear.
'Everywhere you go I try to walk behind it just to watch
it roll. I want to check it's the same as when I left it.
Don't move.'

He tugged her dress down at the waist and kicked it
from him, then rolled down her white cotton panties.
Diana stood, trembling, .her need for him so intense she
didn't dare to disobey. She kept her head lifted, staring at
the wall. She knew that he was crouching at her groin,
staring at her pussy, the neatly trimmed, soft, silky black
hairs of it. She was ready for him. She wondered if he
could smell it. The thought of his eyes on her made her so
hot she started to tremble. She didn't know how long her
legs would hold up.

And then he was back at eye level, his hands on her
naked ass, stroking it and petting it, condescendingly,
letting her know he knew exactly how hot she was, but


365

not letting her move. He would control everything, even
her release. Diana's breath was coming from her in great,
ragged sobs.

'You want to say something,' Michael murmured,
pressing his erection against her. He was so thick, it was
incredible. Diana longed to feel him spearing inside her.
Her body had never forgotten what it was like to be
fucked by Michael. You felt as if you were being plugged.
And yet the itch was not scratched, you just wanted
more.

Diana whimpered.

'Not yet, girl,' he said. He picked her up again and laid

her down roughly on the bed. Her skin, below him, was
mottled with lust, reddening across the length of her
body. Experimentally, Michael cupped his rough hand
over her pussy. She was soaking wet, completely open to
him. He groaned deep in the back of his throat and
pinned her arms over her head, nudging her tanned
thighs apart with his knees. Then he lowered his mouth
deliberately onto hers, and entered her, and Diana lifted
her body up to him, taking him, loving and lost in him.


The break with Brad proved surprisingly difficult.

He took it well, of course. Brad Bailey would never

make a scene. Diana invited him over to her apartment
for dinner in order to give him an easy out. But all he did
was push the caviar around his plate and raise an
eyebrow. ,

'You're making a mistake,' he said, factually. His
handsome face was as open and easy as ever. 'You think
you love this man because of your crazy schedule. You
two are like.., brothers in arms, I guess. But what does
he have to offer you? A mill, two or three at best? I hear
he's a good enough guy, but he's not your kind of
person.'

'And what is my kind of person?' Diana asked, sipping


366

her Chardonnay. 'Michael is a go-getter, Brad. He's a
self-made man.'

'But you and I aren't self-made people. We were born
into a certain stratum of society. It's why your marriage
to Ernie was such a mistake. You had class, and he

didn't. I think you're just repeating that mistake now.'
'I may be,' Diana said, neutrally.

'Well.' Brad pushed back his chair and smiled at her as
though nothing much had happened. 'I can't promise to
wait for you but, assuming I don't find someone else, you
should call me when you come to your senses. And take
care of yourself in the meantime.'

'You too, Brad. I'm sorry it didn't work out,' Diana
said, kissing him on the cheek, then shutting the door
behind him.

She sat back down at her table and gazed at the
Limoges plates, the crystal cut glass, the abandoned
pheasant and herbed potatoes she had had sent in for
dinner, bewildered. All the money and extravagant
courting had just gone up in smoke for Brad, and he had
been so calm.

Diana gazed out over the sparkling lights of the city
and it hit her. He didn't buy it. Handsome Brad Bailey
could not actually credit that he was being dumped for a
nobody, an entrepreneur from the wrong side of town.
He assumed she would wake up and smell the Jamaican
Blue Mountain, and come back to him humbly asking for
a second chance. With Michael, even now, there was the
possibility it might not work out. They had been shafted
in business before, and it could happen again.

Brad Bailey was offering a future so bright, even the
grasping trophy wife Diana had been couldn't have
imagined it.

He just did not believe she was turning him down.
Claire would be devastated, and Elspeth severely
disapproving.


367

But Diana's body still echoed with the aftershocks of
Michael's love-making last night. His tongue, merciless
and insistent, dragging over the rich, musky centre of her,
had had her thrashing about in his sheets like a landed
fish. He had put her on her hands and knees, her belly,
her side, he had bent her over and forced her to the
ground, his fist in her hair, just to watch her pleasure him. They had spent hours love-making with an almost
savage thirst, and then, finally, they had fallen asleep in
each other's arms.

And she knew when she woke she would risk everything
to stay with him.


Diana and Michael now dated openly, even in the office.

'Look, James Carville and Mary Matalin got married,'
Claire told them. 'He was a spin doctor for the Democrats,
she for the Republicans. And if they can marry I
don't see why you guys can't date.'

Diana smiled over at Michael. Dating. Is that what
they were doing? Up at six, working like dogs until seven,
coming home, barely through the door before there was a
tangle of limbs and skin and hair and mouths? It was
amazing to her that they managed to fit in time for
eating.

There were problems. Tina Armis had quit, but not
quietly. She walked out screaming at Michael, then
marched across the hall to Diana's office. Diana could
have had her thrown out, but she dismissed Ellen and let
Tina rave. No point in adding insult to injury.

The younger woman slammed Diana's door shut and
yelled at her. She looked comical, standing there in her
string of demure pearls and her long yellow dress, with her blond hair neatly washed and brushed, and her face
as red as a drunkard's, her mouth open, bawling at
Diana.

'You goddamn lying English witch! Fucking limey


368

gold-digger,' Tina said, with supreme ignorance of the
irony. 'You always had your eye on my man. Home
wrecker! No wonder your first husband fired you. When
Michael finds out you're just after his money he'll lose
you like a bad habit.'

'Look, Tina, I'm sorry you've been hurt,' Diana said,
calmly. 'I love Michael--'

'Love his money,' Tina sneered.

'My ex-boyfriend had a lot more money than Michael
does.'

'Right, and now you go around town pretending that
you broke up with Brad Bailey when everybody knows he
dumped you. Michael deserves better than to be your
second choice. And when he realises that he'll be right
back with me. Where he belongs.'

'I'll have to take that chance,' Diana said softly.
'That's right.' Tina was practically spitting at her. 'You
will. You're older than me and you could stand to lose a
few pounds, lady. And you're a goddamn limey who
couldn't possibly understand him. Michael and me are
two of a kind. We're both from the Bronx.' She snapped
her fingers, aggressively.

'Except that Michael is intelligent and motivated, and
you're a gum-chewing, skinny little bimbo, who got
passed over for a smart girl with tits and ass. If I were
you, I'd eat some food,' .Diana said, easily.

Tina's mouth dropped wide open. She stared at Diana
as though rooted to the spot. She couldn't believe the
fucking ice-queen could come our with language like that.

'See you around,' Diana added, opening her door and
beckoning to Ellen to show Tina out.

When Tina had gone she grinned to herself. That
hadn't exactly been ladylike, but it had certainly been
fun.

Maybe she was turning into a New Yorker.


369

uilding up Imperial was one of the hardest, most
exhausting, stressful, exhilarating and energising times
of Diana's life. All day, every day, she met with package
designers, ad specialists, code-writers and web experts.
She was in and out of planes, limos and cabs, and she
took her work with her wherever she went. Diana revamped the Gecko series with her new cash. It was the
commercial and critical success which announced to the
whole world that Imperial meant business.

But the travel guides, Michael's project, were their
greatest hit. Suddenly, student tourists could see and hear
the cities they were visiting, in living colour. The guides
sold out before the first run even hit the stores. Amazon
could not keep enough stock. The only problem they had
was rushing out more titles to meet demand.

Art Jankel came to see Diana. He shook her hand and
offered her a slim cheroot. He told her he was very
pleased, then he left.

The next morning a messenger arrived from Jankel's
office on the forty-eighth floor with a slim envelope for
Diana.

Inside was a printed card announcing 'an enclosed
bonus'. There was also a cheque. Diana opened it
carefully.

It was made out to her for a quarter of a million
dollars.


'No, I'm not taking any of that, money.' Michael shook
his head as Diana glanced out at the midtown traffic.
New Yorkers were cursing and hooting at each other as
usual. 'You earned it. It's about a quarter of what old
man Jankel has made on the rise of his stock so far.

We're beating the Blakely's games out of Sight.'
'Especially now.'

Michael's big paw squeezed her soft hands.

'Right, especially now.'


370

BShe fell silent. This was a big day for Michael, and for

her. Ernie was about to learn that payback was a bitch.
There was a mass of limos double parked and honking
at each other right down Seventh Avenue, forced to line
up outside the peepshow stores and Disney musicals that
jostled for space a couple of blocks away from the
Blakely's building. Michael was glad he'd taken a cab.
Jostling for position was aggravating, and worse, it took
time.

Ernie and the Blakely's board were nowhere to be seen
in the packed conference room, which was as he'd
expected. Michael signed up to speak, twelfth on a long
list. He did not expect Foxton to realise he was there. The
buying had been done quietly and the consolidating even
more quietly. He did not have to disclose his stake yet;
he'd hovered just below the Securities and Exchange
Commission watershed for announcement, set so that
targeted companies had some warning of when they were
about to be taken over.

He wasn't planning on taking over Blakely's. It was
better to have your own business, to build it from the
ground up. Michael waited until Diana was seated, then
took his place beside her. Around the room were giant
blow-up posters of Blakely's latest and greatest best
sellers. Michael recogvtised them all. Popular novelists,
for sure; marquee names. They also had marquee prices.
He wondered how Ernie's henchmen were going to spin
this. The balance sheet looked good, unless you really
knew the book business. If this company was going to
survive, the board would need to recognise their mistake.

You didn't throw tradition away to grab at the quick
fix, the easy buck. For a quarter or two you were a star.
And then the cracks started to show.

Well, Michael thought, settling back in his seat. I'm
here now. And I'm their wake-up call.

371


Chapter 41


'And so, we feel that the improved balance sheet, the cost
savings and our gain in market share are positioning
Blakely's uniquely well to move forward in this new
millennium as the publishing house of the future,' Ernie
said, leaning a little into his microphone.

Diana admired his skill. You couldn't help but notice

how slickly he dodged the bullets. The overpayment of
authors was 'an investment'. The firing of all their best
people 'an assault on overhead'. The old-money types
who had stock in Blakely's were clearly not too well
versed in the nuts and bolts of the book industry. Peter
Davits, the tall, Slavonicqooking man, had done a nice
little song and dance that made it sound like the Blakely's

balance sheet was the leanest in the business.

'Any more questions?'

She settled back into her seat as Michael rose to his

feet. A flunky passed him the microphone.

'Mr Chairman, I have a couple of questions, if I may.'
Foxton peered out across the rows of dark-suited men

and women in navy and cream, He blinked.

'Mr Chairman,' Ernie said hastily, 'Mr Cicero runs a

rival company to ours. I don't think questions from him

are appropriate.'

'Actually, you have no choice but to allow me to
speak. I am a stockholder of four point five per cent of
Blakely's. You will see my name as the twelfth mandated
speaker on your list, Mr Foxton.' Michael grinned. 'The
Chairman of Romulus Holdings, Inc. That's me.'


37z

'This is obviously an ambush,' Ernie spat.

'As a matter of fact, I tabled my questions two months
ago. Besides, as I'm sure you stand behind your running
of the company, you won't worry about answering them.
Will you?'

Diana watched as half the room turned round to watch
Michael, conservatively dressed in one of his black
English suits, with dark shoes and a paisley tie. He was
polite, but incredibly menacing. The strong body looked
like a cobra ready to spring.

Michael's steady gaze and level voice were dominating
the room. She could feel the current of electricity, the
muted buzz of whispers, that rippled through the investors
and Wall Street analysts gathered there.

'Mr Cicero is correct, Ernest.' Flustered, old man

Gammon, the chairman of the board, was consulting a
lawyer. 'He has the right to speak.'

'I don't mind answering any questions,' Ernie said
quickly, 'but I think it's unorthodox procedure.' The set
of his mouth was sulky. 'Please say what you have to say.
We want to finish up this meeting.'

'Oh, I'll be finished just as soon as I have my answers,'
Michael said. 'First, I'd like to ask you about the cost
savings. Isn't it true that included in that figure are
voided contracts with seventy authors who have gone on

to have bestsellers at other publishing houses?'

'It's not as simple as that,' Ernie snapped.

'Perhaps it's as simple as this: isn't it also true that
your bestsellers have all cost approximately three times
to market and promote as they have inade in returns, and
that once the spending stopped they disappeared? And
isn't it also true that for every bestseller you have
produced in the last six months the company has made a
loss?'

'Market share is a worthwhile goal,' Ernie replied, a
little less confidently.


373

'Then let's discuss Education Station. Of the moneys
invested in new offices, salaries and other overheads,
how much have you recouped?'

'Nothing. It's a startup. They are never profitable.'
'Oh, Imperial Games is profitable. But then we haven't
had to recall over eighty per cent of our lines because of
bugs. I would like an explanation of the fact that money was spent heavily to promote a line of games which was
not yet ready, so that the name of the company is now
mud among suppliers.'

Ernie sputtered, 'I don't think you are seriously
interested in the answer to that question.'

'I am,' said a loud voice behind Michael.

Diana turned her head to see a tall older man with
white hair glaring at the dias. She recognised Joshua
Oberman, the formidable chairman of Musica Records. 'I
have some of my retirement money in this company. I
want to know the answers to these questions. Perhaps Mr
Foxton will oblige me.'

'And me,' called out a squat woman with thick glasses.
She was Katia Hendorf, one of the Street's most respected
analysts.

There was uproar. Gammon banged his gavel for
quiet. But Michael still had the microphone.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I am extremely concerned
about the way this company is being run. Key staffers are
fired while an ineffective management retains a private jet
for top executives. Market shar.e is being propped up by
empty spending. If any investors are as concerned about
this as I am, please feel free to stop Ms Diana Verity
outside the hall. We have printed our own report on
Blakely's.'

Diana stood and gave a little nod to the spellbound
room. She lifted up her Gucci briefcase, with its distinctive
burgundy leather, so that they could all see it. Inside
were the one-page summaries of the disastrous way


374

Blakely's had been handled. They were easy to read, easy

to understand.

They were devastating.

Diana looked across at her ex-husband and winked.

Michael silently handed the microphone back to the
conference-hall flunky.

On the dias, Ernie's face was half white, half purple.
He shouted over the hubbub. 'This is a disgrace! That
cow is my ex-wife, all right? And she's no better
than a--'

There was a loud screech of feedback as Paul Gammon
reached over and switched off Ernie's mike. For a few
seconds, the hall watched in amazement as Gammon and
Foxton shouted at each other. Then Ernie Foxton jumped
to his feet, knocking his chair backwards and, shoving

board members out of the way, stormed out of the hall.
Michael squeezed her hand.

'I think we should be leaving now,' he said.


Ernie Foxton was a survivor. He walked out of the
conference room, straight into the lobby, and stepped
into the executive elevator that shuttled him from the
sixteenth floor to the underground garage where his lirn'o
was always waiting.

'Wake up,' he shouted at Richard, his driver. 'Get your
fucking lazy little arse up and get me home, all right? Is

the fax

	working?'

The chauffeur jumped out of his skin. He'd been trying to
snatch a little rest in between airport shuttling these rich
assholes. But Ernie Foxton was the worst Of them all.

'Yes, sir, it's all there,' he mumbled. He straightened
his cap and hurried to open the door for his boss. Foxton
looked like someone had put a rocket up his arse. How
great it would be if that were actually true.

'And fucking hurry up about it,' Foxton screeched. He
had calls to make. His lawyers in London would be able'


375

to get him another job over there. The key thing was that
he should lock in the cash before this news broke. His
incompetent bloody lieutenants were responsible for all
of this crap.

Ernie wasn't deceiving himself. That ball-busting bitch
he'd married and that little wop fucker had shafted him.
He'd get fired. And run out of New York.

He was going to jump before he was pushed. Paul
Gammon's switching off his mike was reason enough.
Ernie yanked out the laptop from the back of the limo
and hurriedly started to type. If he was fast, he could be
back on Concorde by tomorrow. Friday at the latest.

There was a silver lining to the cloud, though. That
grasping bitch Felicity would be out of his life. She'd been
rubbish when the going got ... a little bumpy.

As the limo pulled out onto Broadway, it struck Ernie
that Diana would have handled it differently. If she'd had
the good sense to stay married to him. It was sad the way
she had declined since he dumped her. Once, she'd
known how to spend money and look good ... bring a
man a touch of class. Real class, the kind that Felicity
would never have. But now she was a feminist harridan, a career girl, he sneered to himself. Pretending she knew
about publishing, about computer games. They had
announced her new earnings in the Wall Street Journal without comment.

Unbelievable. Could it possibly be that she took herself
seriously?


The apartment was empty when he got home. Crispin
Morrell, his lawyer in London, was already hunting out
prospects. Ernie's resignation was in. He wanted to rifle
through his papers and check out the size Of his golden
parachute. A million or two. Nothing spectacular. He
envisaged the immediate loss of the jet, the driver, all the
sweet little perks that went with being chairman of


376

Blakely's. Not even his PR girls were available to issue a
refutation of Michael Cicero, because they belonged to
Blakely's.

'Felicity?' he shouted. But she wasn't there, of course.
She was probably out at Tiffany's.

He quickly called the bank and cancelled her charge
card. At least there was one area of his life, Ernie thought
viciously, that he still had some control over.

He hated Cicero. Bitter, vengeful, interfering little
punk. Ernie wallowed in self-pity. The thought that this
guy was fucking Diana caused him nothing but pain.
Ernie walked to his bar and poured himself a large
Scotch. Diana was frigid, of course. A dreadful lay. But
she'd been an excellent wife otherwise.

He knocked back the liquor and thought about her.
Her curves weren't to his taste, but she had her admirers:
the press loved her, the socialites buzzed about her. And
she had dated Brad Bailey. He was-serious money. I
respect that, Ernie thought, maudlin. He reached for the
Scotch. It blurred the edges of his stress, and bathed
everything in a calmer, more golden light.

After another glassful he walked deliberately upstairs
to Felicity's bedroom. The bitch had a Rolodex with
more information on people than the CIA. She was a
jealous little madam. She was bound to have something
on Diana.


'OK. Yeah. I'm watching it, I'm watching it now.
Thanks, Selina.'

Tina slammed the receiver back" in its cradle and
switched her remote to NY One, the local access channel.
Since her break-up from Michael, every girl she knew had
been calling up with condolences, which was more sour
than sweet of them, she thought. Now Selina Gonzales
was giving her a heads-up about Michael and the limey
bitch coming out of some meeting. Fascinated and'

377


infuriated, Tina curled her long, smooth legs underneath
her and stared at the mob of guys in suits pressing round
her baby and that slut as they stood together on the
sidewalk. Diana was handing something out. Papers. It
looked like she was giving away free lottery tickets or
something, the way those boys were crushing her.
Piqued, Tina couldn't see what Diana was wearing. She
always liked to criticise her clothes, with those tits, always
dressing so conservative, so boring. Michael was a fuddyduddy
when it came to showing skin. Though after hours
he had never objected to seeing all of hers.

She caught a glimpse of sleek black limos parked
behind the crowd. Damn. That was the world of money
and power Tina had always wanted to enter. By
Michael's side she could have done. What the hell was
this guy saying?

She flicked up the volume.

'... business scandal of the year.., investors seem to

be discounting the personal motivation behind this attack

... investors in an uproar here'.

'And Mr Foxton fired Mr Cicero a year ago, correct?'
'That's right, Jim, some time ago. While Ms Verity,
who heads up Cloud Nine, a new starter that's making
waves in the book world, was actually his former wife,
and was divorced by Mr Foxton in a messy high-society
scandal,' the reporter said, almost licking his lips.

Tina picked up the dog-eared copy of the National
Enquirer that was lying on her gold faux-satin coverlet
and smiled. Maybe there was still a way to get back at
that bitch. She had an idea.


'We have two choices.'

Michael turned to Diana and put his hands on her

waist, tugging the silk shirt loose so he could put his
hands directly on her skin. It was amazing, he thought,
how he just could not fuck this girl enough. With the


378

others, it had always been the case that his enthusiasm
drained before they had finished their first cup of coffee
in the morning. Now, he needed to remember to get
enough condoms. A couple of three-packs wouldn't cut it
any more.

He felt the instant, helpless leap of her skin. He decided
he wouldn't let her wear padded bras any more, that way
he could actually see her nipples tightening.

'And what are they?' Diana asked, blushing and
looking down. Michael always set her off balance. He
put himself in her space, he stared right in her eyes. The
blazing intensity he had at his work he directed right at
her. She wondered if she was a horribly retro creature.
She found his muscles, his physical strength, the size of
him, his dominance over her, incredibly exciting. Michael
didn't beg for sex like other men she had known. He just
took. And the paradox was, she wanted him. When he
pushed her back on the bed, she was already ready.

'We could go out to dinner and celebrate. Somewhere
fancy. Your kind of place. Lutece. Four Seasons.'


'Or I could call for takeout and we could go to bed.'
'I vote for the second option,' Diana whispered.

'Somehow I thought you would,' Michael said. He slid
her tight, pencil skirt up over her full, firm hips, stroking
her butt, and traced his initials over the silken hair of her
groin with his finger. Diana shivered and offered him her
mouth. Michael pressed his lips on hers, kissing her
roughly. His hands came up-and palmed her breasts,
lightly, over the padded silk cups of her bra.

'Still clothed?' Michael demanded. 'What's the problem?
We don't have all day here.'

'I'm sorry--' Diana gasped. She struggled out of the
jacket and bra. Didn't he realise who he was talking to?
Wasn't he put off by her accent, her class, her elegance?
She loved the way Michael just didn't give a luck. H

379


oved her for her, and ripped the trappings off her the
way he liked to tear off her thin lace panties. She had
learned to keep an emergency supply in a case here,
because Michael had no respect for her wardrobe
whatsoever.

'Too late,' he said, softly. He pulled off her skirt and
thong panties and picked her up, flinging her over his
shoulder. They didn't make it to the bed.


l380 '

Chapter 4z


Tina walked a little more slowly than usual. She was
getting used to her brand-new heels, for one thing, four
inches of shiny scarlet leather wrapped round a steel
spike that thrust up her ankle, jutted out her barely there
butt, and made her slim hips swing slightly as she minced
along, trying to ignore the pain in her toes. After all, she
did look great. No pain, no gain. This way, as she inched
down Madison Avenue, she could stop and admire her
reflection in every designer boutique window she passed.
She had on a fire-red Versace suit, as subtle as a brick,
thigh-high, with a military-cut jacket with gaudy gold
buttons. Her lips were blood-red too and her eyelashes
thick with navy mascara. Her long blond hair tumbled
down her back in a shower of gold that caught the light.
Men and women stopped to rubberneck. Well, hell, Tina
thought, she was glad she'd given them something to
gape at. Just last week Harper's said red was the new
neutral. Which meant she was only blending in.

A cloud of Chanel No. 5 wafted along with her as she
turned into the small building on the corner of Fortieth
Street. The revolving door and grey slate fronting really
didn't do it justice; these were the offices of Big City magazine, the gossip sheet that focused specifically on
New York. Everybody read it. Marissa Matthews, the doyenne of Manhattan's tittle-tattlers, was editor in
chief, and she published weekly scuttlebutt about anybody
she could think of. If you were a big star, going
outside without make-up was sufficient excuse for half a


38I

page. If you were a socialite, you needed a really nasty
divorce, with fights over child custody and who got the
yacht. And if you were a nobody, you needed to be a
corrupt cop or a satanist on the board of education to
qualify. Big City loved dirt. The grime of the New York
skyscrapers was mirrored in the delicious celebrity filth
that poured forth from its pages.

Tina read it every week. And now she was going to

star in it.

She hugged herself. She had always wanted to be

famous. Tina minced up to the receptionist, and flicked

her flaxen mane.

Maybe some big producer would see it and cast her in

a Hollywood movie. Things like that happened all the

time. Didn't they?

'I'm Tina Armis,' she announced proudly to the girl.

'Yeah?' came the bored reply.

'I have an appointment at two to see Marissa
Matthews. And to have a photo session,' Tina told her.
She examined her reflection in the smoky glass panel
behind the reception desk. She had never looked lovelier.
And of course Big City was paying for her clothes.

If only she could see Diana Verity's face when she

picked up the mag! That would be the real cherry on the

cake.


Diana paced up and down nervously. She wondered if
she should do something. Call Mi.chael, maybe. Call the
doorman up, at least. How had Ernie discovered her
number? And why was he coming round here?

It was early in the morning, but he still sounded drunk.
The telephone call had caught her off guard. Rushing
back to her own flat to pick up some faxes for the sales
presentation this morning, she had grabbed the phone as
she stepped out of the shower, still wrapped in her
voluminous white Ralph Lauren bathrobe, the soft

38z

towelling sticking to her skin. Refreshed and pampered
from the L'Occitane lavender and honey bubble bath
she'd taken, her body drenched in fragrance and her
blood still pumping from the ghost of Michael's kisses
this morning, she was relaxed. And not prepared.

'I need to see you,' he said, as soon as she picked up the
phone. His voice was slurred slightly, just enough for
Diana to notice it. 'Been doing some thinking. You said a

lot of true stuff. No hard feelings about today.'
'Yesterday.'

'Yesterday, right. Just business. Anyway, had a fight
with Felicity and locked the doors.' Ernie snickered. 'And
I'm coming round to talk to my wife. Won't take long, be
there in twenty minutes.'

'No! Ernie, don't come round. I - I'm busy. Going to
work.'

Diana looked round the apartment for her papers.
How quickly could she get dressed and get out of here?
What on earth could he want? For a second she
wondered if yesterday had unbalanced him, if he'd gone
mental.
'I'm calling from the car. On my way into the city to

see the lawyers. Going home, darlin'. Got a new job.'
'That was fast,' Diana said, despite herself.

Ernie cackled. 'You know me. I adapt. Gotta adapt,
babe. It's why you hooked up with me at first. So, ten
more minutes, for old times' sake, all right?'

He hung up and Diana dived for her clothes. Rejecting
the pretty dress and tiny mint-coloured cardigan by Gucci
she had been planning to wear, stie opted for a cream
blouse and a severe Dolce & Gabanna navy pantsuit. It
fitted her like armour. She wouldn't call Michael, because
that would be a display of weakness. Ernie - well - Ernie
was an asshole, but yesterday they had cut his world out
from under his feet. They were definitely even, and he had once been her husband.

383


She didn't see how she could rightly refuse him.
Very well, ten minutes. She fixed a pot of coffee on the
Krups blender and called down to Zachary, the friendly
lobby guard who was actually a former Mossad agent.
The building housed a lot of UN diplomats, and
everybody who was shown upstairs went through a metal
detector and a pat-down. If Ernie passed that test, she
supposed it was OK that he come up.

Diana let the coffee percolate and settled down to wait.


'So, my dear, tell me how you were forced into this
affair,' Marissa Matthews said sweetly to Tina. She was
almost beside herself with joy. The girl was young, barely
out of college, a twenty-something with a teenager's
coltish body. The bright-red lipstick made her look like a
tart- and the mockery of a business suit, a skirt that was
really a T-shirt with pretensions, and the spiked heels,
gave the impression of the kind of businesswoman who
stars in Playboy photo shoots.

What a money-hungry Barbie doll, Marissa thought.

And it reflected so badly on poor Diana Verity. That she
should be dating a man who once dated.., this! It made
you wonder about his taste, about Diana. Her image was
far too goody-goody, and that made her ripe pickings for Big City. They'd had nothing on her since the 'mistress in
the wife's clothes' story had New York choking over its
breakfast croissants. 'Extend your leg a little, dear. Slip
that jacket off your shoulder. Wht marvellous skin you
have. Do go on.'

The photographer clicked away as Tina gave her story

between shots. Marissa had a deadline coming up arid was rushing this one onto the cover. They had no time to
waste.

'Well, the threat was never said aloud. More like I

kinda had to, though. To keep my job,' Tina said.

'You mean it was implicit.'


384

'Yeah. Implicit, right. Anyway, I fell for him because
he was a demon in bed. Hung like a baboon--'

'You don't need to be quite so graphic, dear,' Marissa
lied, making notes. 'Like a baboon. Right. And he was
very successful.'

'Yes, but I wasn't interested in his money.' Tina tossed
her hair. 'I was a girl from the Bronx, you know, the old
neighbourhood. Like Michael. I knew what he needed.
But this woman, this little bitch - everybody hates her in
our office - she swans in with her limey accent and she
marries money, right? That other English guy who
dumped her. And she had a heart to heart with me about
it. She said--'

Tina smiled for the camera. She'd been using Rembrandt
toothpaste for the past four days and she was sure
it made her teeth look like ivory pearls. The more she
told, Marissa had made it clear, the bigger her piece
would be and the bigger her picture. Why, Brad Bailey
was looking for a girl, wasn't he?

'She said Michael didn't have enough money for her
because she had managed to snag Brad Bailey-.'
'To "snag" him?' Marissa repeated, in transports of

joy.

'Yeah, something like that.' The thought of lawyers
cast a brief shadow over Tina's joy. 'Well, I can't quote
exactly.'

'There were no witnesses to this conversation?'

'Just me an' her. She was trying to drive a wedge
between me and my man.' Tina sniffed.
Her word against Diana's. They could repeat every
word of it, stick in an alleged and they'd be quite safe,
Marissa realised.

'She told me though that.., that men liked a class act.
And I wasn't good enough for a rich man like Michael.
She was seeing him the whole time she was going out


385

with Brad, you know. Intruding into our private lives.

She used to call and hang up.'

Tina was thoroughly enjoying herself now.

'That must have been emotionally devastating,'
Marissa purred.

'Sure. Yes, it was.' Tina took her cue and reached for a
Kleenex from the box placed before her, holding it
delicately to her bone-dry mascara while the snapper
moved about her. 'She wrecked the happy home we had
together. We were thinking about marriage.'

'Was there any "romance" in the office, dear?' Marissa
prompted eagerly. How wonderful if she could break that
sensational tidbit.

'That was the rumour. I didn't see any,' Tina said,
regretfully. 'But Diana Verity had no skills, nothing,
when Michael hired her. That was before I came on
board. She was doing my job at first. Which is why she
hates me. She feared I would like, unseat her and stuff.'

Marissa did a creditable job of smothering her laugh

into a cough. 'Excuse me. Please go on.'

'Anyway, she "worked" in Michael's office when he

was at her husband's old place. If you ask me she was the

cheating one. He just wanted to get back at her because

she was fucking Michael. Why else would he hire her?'

'Why indeed?' Marissa asked thoughtfully. 'Could I get

you to put your head in your hands, dear? Just like that.
Perfect.'


The bell rang. Diana stood, and Walked to the door to let
Ernie into her home. The morning sun was streaming
through the windows, bathing her apartment in light; it
set off the oyster-white decor, the plump cushions
imported from France stacked on her chaise-longue, the
fresh creamy blossoms of white hydrangeas mixed with
brilliant blue irises and soft pink sweet peas which she
had delivered each morning. She could be proud of how


386

it looked. It was the luxury of a few hundred thousand
rather than the millions she'd had to play with on Central
Park West, but Diana thought she liked this apartment
better. It was all her; each piece was there for beauty, not
ostentation; it was feminine and graceful and simple. The
way she had lived her life once Ernie had dumped her.

She stood back as he staggered through the door.
There was an unmistakable reek of sour mash whiskey
on his breath. Diana glanced down at her watch; it was
ten to nine in the morning.

What a way for her fairy-tale wedding to end up,
Diana thought. Cinderella's Prince Charming turns out to
be a masochistic drunk, and the fairy carriage turns into
a rent demand. And yet the irony was that her happiness
had begun once Happily Ever After had fallen to pieces.

'H'llo, Di. You look gorgeous. Nice pantsuit. You
smell good,' Ernie said. He looked at her rather pathetically
with big puppy-dog eyes. 'You always looked good,
though. Never better than now.'

Diana smoothed down her hair. She had no idea what
to say. Once she had been desperate to make Ernie fall
back in love with her, now she just wanted him to get
out.

'Thank you.' She moved towards her white marble
kitchen countertop, just to get further away from him.
'Let me get you some coffee.'

'Only if you're going to make it Irish,' Ernie said.
'At nine a.m.? Let me get you milk and sugar.' Diana settled into her single armchair so there was no danger he
would park himself by her. 'What's all this about, Ernie?
I'm glad you have another job. But I have to be at work.
I'm late already.'

'Right.' He slipped onto her couch, ignoring the coffee,
and gazed across at her. His tone was heavy with
sarcasm. 'You're the big working woman now.'


387

'Yes, I am.' Diana held his gaze unflinchingly. 'And I'm
needed at my company.'

"S not yours. 'S Cicero's. Little fucking Yank bastard.'
'I would rather you didn't use language like that,'
Diana said. 'Look, Ernie - I need you to tell me what this
is all about.'

To her horror he got up from the sofa, lurched towards
her, and dropped clumsily to one knee, taking her hand
in his.

'We made a lot of mistakes, OK, Di. I was - I cheated
on you. But I always loved you.' Mawkish alcohol
fuelled remorse was getting the better of him. His eyes
were bloodshot and teary. 'I broke up with Felicity. She
was always trying to split us up---'

'You don't say,' Diana interjected, coldly. She had to
let him finish, but he repulsed her. Did he expect her to
forget everything and take him back so he could cheat on
her in England, too?

'She's gone. She was trashy, compared to you. You're a
classy lady.' Ernie's breath reeked, and Diana tried not to
flinch. 'You need to give up work and come home with
me. We can do better there. All your friends. Your clubs.
All that.'

'Ernie,' Diana yanked her hand out of his, 'why do all
the men in my life seem to think I want to stop working?
Maybe I like it. Maybe I'm good at it.'

'Come on, darlin'.' Ernie's eyes narrowed, meanly.
'You got a job because you were my wife, all right?'

His words stung. Diana pushed herself to her feet. 'It's
time for you to leave. I'm happy in America and there's
nothing between us any more.'

'You don't mean that,' he whined. Then he looked at
her face, and saw the expression on it: the hard set of her
brows, the look of disdain set over her high cheekbones
and full lips.

'I see how it is.' Ernie slouched towards the door.

388


'You're fucking that guy. And now you're playing
Businesswoman of the Year, like you played the good
wife with me. Except now you picked some kid from the
backwaters of the Bronx.'

'Get out, Ernie,' Diana pushed him from her, revolted,
'before I call Security. Michael managed to make it
without stepping on people. Maybe that's something you
despise. The funny thing is you're finished, and you don't
even know it. And by the way - you're hardly from the
right side of town yourself.'

'You think you won.' His bony finger jabbed at her.
'You think Cicero can ride off into the sunset with my
wife and my fucking life? You got another think coming,
girl. I'm not through.'

'But you are, Ernie. That's exactly what you are,'
Diana told him.

She shoved him into the hallway and locked the door
behind him.

389


Chapter 4 3


Michael stepped out of the cab and paused for a second
on the sidewalk. The commuters rushing past ignored
him. Manhattan was always that way; nobody bothered
to look round, nobody had the time. The steam that
hissed up from the sidewalks, the clouds of cherry
blossom clinging tenaciously to the trees despite the dust
and fumes from the honking cabs and backed-up Lincoln
town cars, everything got ignored in favour of getting
where you were going. Yesterday.

It was early morning. Any second now, Diana would
be here and he could get on with the business of making
serious money.

Michael gazed up at the black monolith of the JanCorp
tower. His office was up there. The phones and faxes
would already be starting to buzz with the hymn of
success he loved so much. Last week had been fun, sure:
sticking it to Ernie, a day he had waited for and planned.

There Was that Italian revenge thing. Michael wasn't
the type to use a concrete overcoat or a baseball bat, but
watching that bastard's careercrumble, in his own
building, in front of his own board ... that had been
satisfying.

CNN had announced Ernie's resignation on its business
news. The shot of him, harassed, rushing out of the
conference room in the middle of the meeting had been
worth staying up late for. If he had been younger,
Michael would have taped that to watch it over and over.


39o

But not now. He was more concerned with the future
than the past.

He took a deep breath, sniffing in the scent of coffee
and gas fumes and blossoms and doughnuts, everything
that made New York what it was. Then he pushed open
the door to the lobby.

'Good morning, Mr Cicero.' Sally, the receptionist,
greeted him deferentially as usual. She hastily shoved
something she was reading out of sight. She blushed.
'Your assistant, Mr Plato--'

'Harry's in already. Good.'

'Yes, sir, he's been in for an hour, supervising the PR
response.'

Michael paused and looked down at her. Damn, he
was handsome, Sally thought, that square jaw and
broken nose, the muscles on him under the well-cut black
suit that brought out his eyes. Every woman in the place
was half in love with him. And who knew? Maybe after
the scandal he'd be a free man again.

She reminded herself to stock up on lip gloss.

'PR response to what? Surely there's not that much
more to be said on Blake|y's. I thought the phones
stopped ringing a day or so ago.'

'No - no,' Sally stammered. She wasn't sure what to

say. 'You mean you haven't seen it?'

'Seen what?' Michael demanded.

Furtively Sally kicked away the copy of Big City she
had let tumble to the floor. Oh man. If he caught her with
it ... Who was going to be the one to break it to him?
Not her. They always shot the megsenger.

'There's an article in a magazine I think Mr Plato
wants you to look at,' Sally whispered, lamely. Cicero
was fixing her with that intense, dark stare. 'Please, sir--'

'Don't worry about it.' He smiled confidently, and she
was able to stop a tremble before it started. 'Whatever it
is, I'm sure you had nothing to do with it.'

39


'Oh no.' The girl went scarlet and shook her head
violently. 'Nothing at all. Really. I never even knew her.
Except when she came in in the mornings.'

Michael smiled reassuringly at her. What was the girl's

name? Sally?

'I'll sort it out. You have a nice day, honey.'

He stepped into the elevator as Sally looked longingly

after him. Most guys here were afraid to wish her good
morning in case they got slapped with a sex-harassment
rap. But Michael always called her baby, or doll, or
honey. How she wished she was his honey.

'You too, sir,' she said wistfully as the chrome doors

hissed shut.

The fact was, she suspected, he was about to have the

worst day he'd had in a long time.


Michael stepped out on the ninth floor. He instantly
noticed something was amiss. The normal early morning
office chatter and buzz was muted and subdued. Nobody
was even playing Quake on office time. The programmers
weren't in yet, of course, but the marketing staff
were, and they were nearly as bad; swearing, rock music,
'empty pizza boxes. This morning they were keeping their
heads down. He greeted a couple of his lieutenants. They
both just smiled briefly and scuttled away from him.

Michael's radar picked up. Danger, it bleeped at him.
He strode to his office, noticing that Harry, the executive
assistant who had replaced Tina, had gone inside. He
glanced down at Harry's phones and saw all the lights
blinking. At least six calls were on hold.

'Emma.' He turned round and gave a brisk order to his
office manager. 'Pick up all the calls that are holding,
apologise and say we can't speak to them at this time.
Take messages. Then divert all my calls to Harry's
voicemail until further notice.'

'Yes, sir,' Emma Harris said. She was a pretty, efficient

39z


young woman, usually very exuberant. Today, she was
twisting her fingers. 'Can I just say I'm very sorry. I don't
believe it, anyway.'

What the bloody hell is going on? Michael thought. He
pushed open the door and let himself into his office.

'Fill me in,' he snapped at Harry once the door was
shut.

Harry winced and simply handed over a copy of Big
City.

The picture on the front was unmistakable: Diana,
looking regal, as classy as she had ever done, in a long
dress of light mint-green silk, with Brad Bailey holding
her arm, her hair swept up in a glossy French knot,
diamonds dripping from her earlobes and draped over
her throat. She screamed class and elegance. Michael had
a momentary pang of jealousy; he hated to think Brad
had once been her date. Or that any man would touch
those curves other than himself.

But that was only for a nanosecond. The blaring
headline at the bottom could not be ignored.

IS THIS THE BIGGEST GOLD-DIGGER IN NEW YORK.) it

yelled. Underneath, in bold red letters, was written, Home-wrecker... Hustler... Fortune-bunter... The

thrilling accusations of the rival she replaced!

'What the luck?' Michael said, angry.
'It's your ex-girlfriend. Tina Armis. She spilled her
guts.' Harry flicked over to the centrefold article, where
Tina was spilling more than her guts. Marissa had
coaxed her into a swimsuit and then her lingerie. Her
slender legs tumbled out of the staples clad in little more
than frou-frou slippers, and a G-string at the top
consisting of a tiny vee of dark lace. She was holding a
spray of feathers over her naked, tiny little apple breasts.
She looked like a young stripper. Michael felt himself
flush with rage. Oh, great. Look at the way Harry was
biting back a grin. And he couldn't blame him; Tina was


393

a great piece of ass. But it was like having his former sex
life splattered all over New York. Michael's thick jaw set
in distaste.

'I guess I need to read this,' he said. His stubby fingers
flicked through the inky rag, over glossy photos of Tina
in a red suit, curled up half nude on a bearskin rug. They
had kept it skimming just above Playboy, but barely.
Next to her were the haughtiest photos of Diana that
they had on file. Attending premieres and balls, with just
that one shot of her in jeans looking for a cheap
apartment.

Breathlessly, Marissa Matthews led her readers
through Tina's sad tale. She was just a put-upon little girl
... whom, Michael read, blinking, he had apparently
forced into bed with veiled threats. Despite this abuse she
had come to love him, until Diana Verity had arrived on
the scene.

Michael couldn't, believe they would try this. He would
sue them, destroy them. What proof did they have for
any of this?

And then he came to the piece de rsistance. Tina
claimed she had had a heart to heart with Diana, and
'Diana had boasted.of Brad's colossal wealth. According
to Tina, she said she had 'traded up'.

'Ernie Foxton wasn't good enough for her,.' Tina was
quoted as saying. 'He didn't have enough cash. She was
determined to show the world the husband she could
snag. But then she found out about Michael's - my
Michael's - deal with Mr Jankel.'

They stopped for a tiny photo of Art. Michael cursed.
Art Jankel was a recluse. He would detest this.

'So suddenly Michael stops being worth a few million
and he has serious money, from JanCorp, I mean. And
Diana just laughed at me. I wasn't fancy like her. She said
she knew moneyed men. She could have Michael any
time she wanted.'


394

Marissa asked Tina why Diana would prefer Michael
to Brad. Tina replied ('with tears in her blue eyes,' said
the old hag, sympathy overflowing) that Brad could see
through her but Michael was hooked. 'He told me once
he hated women who married for money. But he's blind
and he's forgotten what Diana is.'

His breath coming hard through his nostrils, Michael
ripped the magazine into shreds, balled it in his fists, and
flung it into the wastepaper basket. He turned to his
assistant. 'Diana Verity is head of our publishing division.
Our response to any enquiry about this story is no

comment. It's not worth commenting on. Got it?'
Harry nodded hastily. 'I got it.'

'Good.' Michael pushed to his feet. 'Where is she?'


Ernie chuckled. He was in the car for the last time,
heading out to JFK and his first-class ticket back home. It
looked like maybe the new job was going to fall through.
Those stupid fuckers, why not take advantage of world
class talent when it presented itself? But whatever, it
wasn't his problem. He'd had a couple of lines of blow
and nothing could puncture his good mood. He'd find a
way through this just like he'd found a way through all
the other messes. Meanwhile, there was the fantastic
bloody magazine article for the flight over lying next to
him on the leather seat.

Ernie glanced at thepicture of the thin chick who had
sold the story. Nice. Skinny. How he liked them.
Probably be happy to try a little experimentation. And
wasn't it fantastic to think of Manhattan waking up to
this, everybody from the cops grabbing their doughnuts
to the socialite wives who pretended not to read trash,
but who secretly loved it. Yeah. Everyone he knew in
town would be acquainted with it. It made Diana look
little better than a hooker, a sort of rich lowlife, just a
phony with an accent. He thought of Michael Cicero, the


395

poor boy who carried himself so solemnly. Well, Michael
looked like a fool now, didn't he? Once he got back home
they'd be calling him to confirm this little story and he,
Ernie Foxton, would love to help 'em out.

Diana obviously thought her little appearance at his
meeting had been the end of the story - pushing him out
of the apartment, that small, ordinary little place she had,
nothing to notice in it. Rejecting him. Him, Ernie, who
she had set her little money-grabbing cap at, whose
money she'd ploughed through. Just like Felicity. All
women were the same, of course.

But it wasn't the end of the story. Not by a long shot.
Ernie's only regret was that he wasn't the one sticking
it to Diana. If he had had a hand in this, it would have
been very satisfying.

He flicked through the pages again, staring with hatred

at Diana's proud face, while New York slipped past and

the limo plunged into the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.

But maybe there was something he could do.

He tapped the window in front, making the chauffeur

slide it back. The guy had a phone up there.

'Get me Michael Cicero on the phone,' he said.
"'Imperial Games. Tell him it's Ernie Foxton calling. And I
only want to speak to him, personally.'


Diana couldn't believe it. She'd seen the paper at seven,
because Claire Bryant came right round with a copy and
a bunch of Kleenex.

'Look at the little tramp,' Claire said. 'Nobody will

believe it. And ... it's a boring story, anyway.'

Her voice quailed on the lie.

'Oh God,' Diana breathed. She sat down. She felt
nauseated. Her friend bustled around the apartment,
fixing her coffee, chattering, refusing to let her spirits
sink.

'Pay it no mind.' Claire brought her a tiny, steaming


396

cup of espresso. 'You know you married Ernie for love,

right? You loved him ... that's why you married him.'
Diana stared bleakly at her.

'If only that were true,' she said.


Michael scowled at Harry. His day was just getting
worse. As soon as Diana had come into the office she had
barricaded herself in a three-hour meeting with some
Japanese affiliates. He suspected she'd planned that
deliberately, but Ellen swore she hadn't, that it had been
planned for weeks.

'She told me her day would run as normal, sir.' Ellen
quivered. 'Do you want me to fetch her out of the
meeting for you?'

'No. That's OK.' Michael turned on his heel and
stalked out of Cloud Nine. Now he couldn't even speak
to her, to comfort her.

And now Harry wanted him to pick up some damn
call. Fuck it. Let the press whistle for it. He wondered if
they were waiting outside the building to snap him and

Diana as they left the office. More than likely.

'I told you, no goddamn calls, Piato.'

'I think you'll want to take this one,' Harry said
quietly. 'It's from Ernest Foxton. And he says he won't
speak to anybody but you.'

Michael's brow arched. Very well. He supposed he at
least owed the little prick the courtesy of taking this call.

'I'll go into my office. Put him through there,' he said.
'And Harry - tell me the minute Ms Yerity gets out of her
meeting. I want to see her.'

Michael shut the door softly and sat down. His heart
was beating a little fast. Like a predator confronted with a
trapped, broken prey, bleeding, with nothing left to lose,
he was smart enough to know that he was in danger.

'Michael Cicero,' he said, picking up.


397

'Hey, Michael. Read the papers? Course you have. It's

why I called.'

Ernie's thin little voice was babbling a mile a minute.

Coke, Michael thought, with pity.

'You have something to say, Foxton? Or is this a social

call?'

'Ah yes, the wunderkind of the Wall Street Journal,

and all that. So businesslike. So rushed.'

Cicero waited impatiently. Doubtless the jerk would

get, ito it soon.

read the papers too. Gotta say, you got nice taste.

Girl has an ass like a boy.'

'I always hated that about her.'

'I guess so. Like Diana's big booty, huh? Cold in bed
though, ain't she?'

'If you want to swap dirty stories, Foxton, you came to

the wrong place.'

'Nah. Not stories, mate, more like a warning. Of course,

I fucking hate you, right. Always did. You know that.'

'Yeah. I do,' Michael replied flatly.

'But that's business. Once I get home I'll see what I can

do about screwing you over. Return the favour, like. This
is more personal. Diana ... see, I don't know this Tina,
but she's bang on about the money. Diana's a gold
digger. She always was, always will be. She married me
for money. Never did a stitch of work in her life. She's
the same as your ex, but a bit less honest about it.'

Michael felt the blood rise up in his throat. He wanted

to reach down the telephone and strangle Ernie with the

cord. Lying bastard. Trash-talking asshole.

'That's a lie, and we both know it.'

'Is it?' Ernie gave a sniggering, high-pitched laugh.

'You think she was the poor hard-done-by sweetheart
who I betrayed? Wake up and smell the petrol fumes,
Cicero. Diana knew you were gonna be rich. She married
me for my money. If you don't believe me ask her.'


398

Chapter 44


Michael hung up the receiver and sat staring into space.

Violence doesn't solve anything, the old saying went.
But he thought it might make him feel better. The vision
of bailing his fist and smashing it into the side of the
limey prick's nose was tantalising, but all Michael could
do was slam down the phone.

The thought of Manhattan drooling over his woman women
- was annoying. Michael shrank from it. He was
a businessman, a private guy. Not some two-bit film star
with multiple marriages and a sordid past. He pictured
Tina, half nude like a centrefold. Bad judgment on his
part. But she really didn't matter; the poor kid was only
embarrassing herself. They'd split up. She was no
reflection on him.

The trouble was, Michael realised with a jolt, that he
loved Diana.

He had been attracted to her from day one. Disliked her, then warmed up' to her when her prestige was
snatched away. She was a hard worker with a talent for
hiring and presentation. All th.e bonuses and rises he had
given her, she had deserved.

But Diana was a high-maintenance beauty. He wondered
about the amount of cash it took her to keep it all
together. Even when she had nothing, she came into the
office in solid designer wear. He wasn't up on women's
beauty rituals, but he knew she went to very expensive,
very upscale hairdressers, manicurists, beauty parlour.


399

She wore a lot of diamonds and other jewels. She lived in

a fancy apartment. And all this stuff required cash.

Uneasily, he thought about Brad Bailey. An insufferable
little jerk living on daddy's money. Well, OK, he
admitted to himself, he didn't know if he was a jerk or
not, but there was no self-made element to him. He was
just an upper-class pretty boy with a ton of cash. Ernie
Foxton was self-made, but he was a bastard. What did he
have to recommend him besides money?

They said love was blind. Could he have been that

blind?

Michael stood and walked to his window and looked

out over Sixth. The yellow cabs and crawling cars jostled
for position, the sun sparkling off their windscreens, the
chaos muted from this height. He had always wanted a
girl who would love him for himself. There was a sick
feeling at the pit of his stomach, a nagging suspicion.
Diana had been an excellent manager, but Imperial had
always been his thing. The terms of the buyout by
JanCorp, if Imperial Games proved a success, had

provided for him getting the money.

A lot of money.

Tina claimed that Brad Bailey had dumped Diana.

Ernie said Diana married him just for his money. The
magazine claimed that Michael was, right now, in love
with the biggest gold-digger in New York City.

Michael's reflection stared back at him from the
window. He was stocky, muscular, with a square jaw
and a broken nose. He looked nothing like thin little
Ernie Foxton, nothing like the all-American WASP good
looks of Brad. Plus, Diana was an English lady, very
refined, very proper. What the hell would she want with
someone from the Bronx? But, said that nagging little
voice, right now you're someone from the Bronx with
zo million bucks. And Tina says she knew you had that
money coming.


400

Diana had got back together with him barely two
months after Tina had spoken to her.

Michael shook his head. It was bullshit, all of it. Of
course Diana had married Ernie Foxton for love. She was
guilty of nothing more than bad judgment, which he was
guilty of too by fucking Tina Armis. He would ask

Diana, and that would be the end of the matter.
Meanwhile, he had a company to run.

He buzzed Piato. 'Harry, you can start putting through
any calls that are to do with the business, OK? We've
wasted half a morning on this bullshit.'


Diana crossed her legs under the mahogany table and
listened politely to the interpreter, while not taking her
eyes from her guests. It was said that the Japanese liked
their women feminine and deferential, but she hadn't
worn a dress. She'd chosen a soft Joseph pantsuit in crisp
pink cotton, with a matching silky, form-fitting top, and
a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals in candy-floss leather, with
a tow heel. Today it had been more important than ever
to get out of the door looking her absolute best. Her lips
were touched up with a clover gloss, her makeup
minimalist, with light Mac concealer and Shu Uemura
blusher hiding her pale, stricken skin and the hollows
under her eyes. Drops had removed every last trace of
redness. To the reporters - probably from Big City - she
had managed to look pulled-together and upbeat. There
would be time enough to collapse later. She had no idea
what Michael thought of it, or how the office was dealing
with it. As far as her day went, she hfid gone straight into
her meeting, and then whatever else happened to be on
her plate, it could wait.

Thank God for boarding school and the stiff upper lip.
It was amazing how often it came in handy. She had met
Marissa Matthews before, at balls, charity parties, things
like that. She was a bitter, warped little woman who had

bad things to say about everybody. Diana vaguely
remembered cutting her dead once at a party of Claire's.

Diana didn't like gossip mongers. Now she remembered
why.

Of course most of it was lies, she thought, as she
nodded and smiled and gave little bows to her guests as
they were finally ushered out. But the deadly thing was
that part of it was true.

Once the door was closed, she buzzed Michael on the
office intercom. He picked up right away. Diana braced
herself.

'I'd like to see you,' she said, as calmly as she could.
'I'll be right there.' He hung up.
Diana moved to the small private bathroom at the back of her office. It was her work sanctuary, with flesh
flowers by the sink, Tuscan soaps and two vials of her
specially blended Parisian scent. The mirror showed her
face, beautiful and composed. Her dark hair was fresh
and shiny from the wash and set she'd had done in her
building's ground-floor salon. Her heart felt like it was in
a blender, but at least she looked good.


'Michael plunged through the office, waving aside the
executives who tried to come up and press their questions
on him. Harry could take care of them. Right now,
business didn't seem that important.

Diana had left her door open. He told Ellen to hold all
calls, then went through and shut the door behind him.
She was standing at the window, wearing something in
pastels, light pink, form-fitting. It showed off the incredible
firm, curvy flair of her butt he loved so much, and the
high, full line of her breasts. He had a flashback of her
ass on top of him, grinding away, her breasts bouncing
above him the last time they had made love, yesterday, at
lunch, when they had ducked back to his place because
they couldn't keep their hands off each other. How hot


4o

she got, how completely she had yielded to him, Michael
thought. He remembered Ernie had called her frigid. At
least he knew in that way, he was different, at least he
knew she liked his touch. She could not help herself,
under him. He would not allow it. With some girls, his
touch had been light, casual, they meant little to him. But
Diana was a woman he had to have, she was in his blood.
It was imperative to subdue her, to make her writhe and
sob with pleasure and shudder in his arms ... his fists
clenched. There was nothing like it in the world.

His heart lifted just from looking at her. She belonged
to him.

The question was why.

'I guess you read it,' he said, lamely.

The and the rest of Manhattan.' She shrugged, an
elegant, delicate movement that made the sheen on her
little sweater sparkle in the light. 'It's fish and chip
wrapping. It doesn't bother me.'

She was the old Diana Foxton now, the ice-queen.
Daring him to say any differently.

..... I have a couple of questions.'

'Fire away.' Diana's blue eyes sought out Michael's.
He looked angry with her, disappointed. Oh God. She
delved deep inside her for every spare ounce of strength.

She couldn't crumple and cry the way she wanted to.
'First, did you speak o Tina?'

'Yes, I did.' Diana saw Michael's eyes flash darkly and
she prickled defensively. 'I spoke to her, but it was
nothing like she said, OK?'

'It was nothing like that? You didn't discuss relation

ships? You didn't discuss me and Brad Bailey?'

'Well, yes, but--'

Michael held up one hand, furious. 'That's great,
Diana. Talking about me in the office. I guess that wipes
out any plans to sue. Tell me, did you also discuss the
fact that you were dating a rich guy?'

403


really wasn't like that.'

'I'm sure.' His dark, thick brows frowned at her. He

was so angry, she thought. He was controlling it, but the
scornful look on his face just made her want to burst into
tears. 'You know, I took a call from your ex-husband
today. He's a jerk. He said nothing unusual, except for "
one thing, he said that Tina was right, that you never
loved him, that you married him for his money. I told
him that was bullshit. He told me to ask you.'

Michael looked steadily over at her. His heart felt like

it was being crushed by some unseen iron fist. Please
Lord, let her deny it. I'll never ask you for anything
again.

'So tell me. What's the story, Diana? You did marry

him because you loved him, right?'

There was a pause.

Michael breathed in, raggedly. He knew what her
answer was before she said it. Diana walked over to her
window again, and rested her hands on the window, her
head bowed.

'Wrong,' she said, finally. Her voice was leaden, 'I
married Ernie for his money. I thought we'd be good
together. He married me to get a hostess. I thought it was
an even transaction.'

'Yeah. Very even. Very romantic,' Michael said. He

felt sick. 'And Brad? I guess he dumped you, huh? Did

you know about the deal with JinCorp?'

Diana couldn't believe it. She felt the blood drain from
her face. She walked back to her desk and picked up her
pink leather Prada tote. She had known it was bad, but
she had never expected it to be as bad as this. Not from
Michael. Not from the guy she loved.

'Of course I knew about it.' She spoke very softly; it
seemed to her her voice was coming from far away, like


404

somebody else's. 'I'm a director of this company. Or at
least I was. I resign.'

'What?' Michael said. He seemed completely shocked.
'Why? You can't leave. We need you. This is our
personal business, nothing else.'

'Yeah, well.' Diana was weary. 'Maybe I can't separate
business and personal the way you do. To me, everything's
personal. Maybe it's just part of being a woman.
Whatever, I'm not staying here with you.'

'All I did was to ask you questions,' Michael said,
stubbornly.

'And I answered them. I did certain things, yes. But I'm
not that person any more. I've changed.' Diana felt a tear
seep out, betraying her, and trickle down her chin. 'I
don't need to justify myself to you. Because if you can't
trust what we have, it'll never be any good. I thought you
loved me. I guess I was wrong.'

He just stood there. He wasn't even looking at her.
With a wrenching stab of sorrow in her gut, Diana
shoved her way past him. She didn't even say goodbye to
Ellen. She marched straight into the lobby and stepped
into the elevator, riding down to the parking lot, where
she could commandeer one of the company town cars.

It felt weird, so weird, to be going home in the middle
of the day. She managed to keep the tears in during the
ride home. There would be enough time to collapse when
nobody was about. Diana watched Manhattan slip by,
and tried to be upbeat. She wasn't destitute this time, she had options. One of them was going home. She had a
quarter-of-a-million-dollar bonus, ifter all. She could
take that money and start another business, maybe her
own thing. Claire had offered to take her on in the
interior design store. She had a talent for that. So it
wasn't high-profile headhunting, so what? Diana
thought. She could make something of it.

But her internal efforts to bolster herself were a dismal


4o5

failure. She didn't want to make it on her own. She
wanted Michael. She was in love with Michael. And
now, she had lost him.

The car stilled, grinding to a halt in the sweltering
traffic. Diana couldn't hold it any more. She started to
cry, as quietly as she could. Why hadn't she kept a packet
of Kleenex in her pretty, impractical bloody bag?


She finally tumbled out at the lobby of her building
almost thirty minutes later. She had shoved a fifty-buck
note at the driver, far too large a tip, but she just wanted
to get him away from her as quickly as possible without
well-meaning questions about how she was feeling.
Diana marched straight into the elevator, making sure
the lobby guard didn't stop to shoot the breeze either.
Today, she just wasn't up to it. All she wanted was a hot
bath, her white towelling robe, and Claire's shoulder to
cry on. Maybe it would be best to unhook the phone, too.
The media were bound to get hold of her resignation.
They would take it as confirmation that the Big City story was gospel. But the thought of more public

humiliation, the tittering of Felicity and Natasha - maybe
even Brad's thoughts of a lucky escape - meant nothing
to her, compared to the pain of losing Michael. He had
been so angry. In all the time she'd known him, Diana
didn't think she'd ever seen his face like that. So
passionate with rage. She had wanted to reach out to
him, to ask for forgiveness, but his eyes had forbidden it.
God, Diana thought, I thought marrying a millionaire
was such a coup. But all it actually did was keep me away
from the man I love.

Her control gave up completely. She put her head in
her hand and sobbed, loud, deep sobs that tore out of her
breast. Her make-up was running, splashing with her
tears. Red-eyed and pale, her reflection stared desolately
back at her from the elevator's polished mirror.


4o6

hen the doors hissed open at her floor.

She found herself face to face with Michael.

Diana stepped out and turned her head aside automatically.
There was no hiding how bad she looked.

'How the hell did you get here?' she whispered. 'What
are you doing? Trying to torment me? You can't talk me
out of resigning. Please don't waste your breath. Just
leave, Michael.'

'I will. It me say my piece and then you'll ne'er see me again,' Michael fished a handkerchief out of his suit
pocket and handed it to her. 'Let me inside for just a
second, so we don't have to do this on the landing.'

Diana sighed; it was only a.m., but she felt so
weary. 'OK. For a second.'

She let him in and shut the door.

Michael stood there in his work suit. He looked like he
didn't know where to begin. Then he faced her, and took
a deep breath.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I was mad. I was jealous. No other
woman has ever made me feel the way you do, and I
couldn't bear the thought that you wanted me for money.
What that little fuck said made me want to kill him. And
then you confirmed it. But after you left, I realised you
were just honest with me. You changed, I know you did.
You worked too hard to be in it for the money. And you
would have been with me all along if I hadn't been so
damn arrogant with you at first. I hated you for dating
Brad Bailey, but it was only once you walked out of the
door that I understood why.-It was simple jealousy.

Because I love you, and I want you "to marry me.'
'What?' Diana said. She trembled.

Michael came towards her, caught up her hand, and
pressed it to his lips.

'I look awful,' Diana muttered. It was the only thing
she could think of to say.

'You look beautiful.' He pulled her into his arms and



T407

started to kiss her mouth, her tear-stained cheeks, the
hollow of her neck. 'You've always looked beautiful. To

me you're the most beautiful woman in the world.'
'Michael ...'

'Just say yes.' His dark eyes Rocked on to hers. 'Just say
yes. It's the only thing I want to hear from you.'

'Yes,' Diana whispered. She kissed him back, fervently.
'Yes. Yes. Yes.'

'That's my girl,' Michael said.

He scooped her up in his arms and started to walk
towards the bedroom.

408