No way would he get out of this for less than a mil. Judging by past triumphs—one point five.
He didn’t blame his wife. It was just her talent. She was a world-class expert on spending cash.
And up until two weeks ago, Paulie Lassiter had loved it.
“You okay, Paulie? You’re looking kinda pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“If your tummy’s bothering you again I can get you some Pepto-Bismol.”
“Nah … I think I’m gonna go into the office,” he said.
There had to be some mistake.What he needed was an hour with his accountants, and his lawyers. Maybe fire some of these dumb-ass executives, if they were dumb-asses. Starting to look like they might be crooks.
But he, Paulie Lassiter, was in the clear. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
He tried to calm the churning in his stomach by reminding himself of that. And anyway, Saturday was the party. His wife would expect him to be upbeat.This was only the second major party he’d given for Sally—her sweet sixteenth!
It would be a golden moment and worth every damn penny.
The reckoning could come later. A couple days would make no difference, not right now.
Sally’s party. Sally’s day.Whatever he did in life, it was for her.
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Aisha asked nervously.
“Of course.” Ali gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “She’s ripe, you know it.”
“But to force her … what if he’s not the right boy? We brought her up here, darling. Sent her to that school …”
Ali’s face darkened. He wasn’t sure if that had been the right move. Helen was growing too bold, too rebellious. Of course he wanted a spirited daughter, but not one who would defy him.
“I never met you,” he reminded his wife. “Aya Muna set us up, if you recall.”
She smiled. “Yes. And I didn’t want to marry you.”
He scooped her up and nuzzled her ear. “I wanted you, though.”
“Because you came to my father’s house and climbed up the olive tree by the garage.”
“It’s true.” Ali was proud. “Had to scope you out.”
She had been so beautiful, his young bride, her raven hair flowing loose over her beige cotton dress with embroidered sleeves, hanging out the wash on the line her mother had strung up. He had wanted her instantly, felt his destiny calling. “I won you over.”
Aisha blushed, remembering her wedding night.
“That’s right, sweetheart.”
“The old ways are the best ways.We’re not doing this to Helen, we’re doing it for her.Think of that—her happiness.Why should young ones make their own choices? Who says they have any idea how to do it? All these American marriages ending in divorce … how many ex-wives do you know, stuck with babies?”
Too many. Aisha nodded.
“In the end … it is the solemn bond, the friendship that wins through.We are doing what’s best for our little Haya.”
Aisha smiled. He had rarely called Helen by her original name since they’d landed in America, six years ago.
“Ahmed lands tomorrow,” she said, reassured by her husband.
“Good.That is the day of her big party.”
“He can take her to it!” Aisha suggested brightly.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea.” What if Helen had been wrong? What if there was decadence, after all? Ali had no intention of letting Ahmed see his daughter in any light other than that of a modest and suitable bride. He loved the idea of Helen, wife of a Cairo businessman, contentedly walking through her garden lined with trees, prosperous and—insh’Allah—pregnant. “But he can be here, waiting, the next morning. As soon as she wakes up. We will organize the meeting in the morning, and in the afternoon, the nikkah.What do you think?”
The engagement ceremony. Under Islamic law, they would be as good as married. It didn’t matter then how long till the party and the wedding reception. Helen would be a married woman … all the rest, just so much paperwork.
“She might refuse,” Aisha fretted. “You know her, Ali!”
“She won’t understand what she is getting into. Her Arabic is fading.” Ali had thought of a plan, and hurried to explain it to his wife, to show how clever he was. He had seen the reserve in Helen’s eyes, and he didn’t trust her one bit.“We will tell her it’s a friendship ceremony. Old Egyptian custom. She knows no better! She’ll sign, Aisha. And once she realizes …” He shrugged.“We’ll have her in Cairo, and it will all be different. She will accept it—and be happy.”
“She might sign the nikkah like that,” Aisha conceded. “But sweetheart, how do you get her to Cairo? Signing a paper is one thing, getting on a plane …”
“Here’s where the smart plan comes in.” Ali puffed out his chest a little, because this was brilliant. He hadn’t made almost four hundred thousand dollars in trading this year by being stupid. “We’ll have to waste a little money, but it’s worth it for Helen’s happiness.We tell her we are all going to Cairo.”
Aisha’s eyes widened. “But why? The honeymoon is just for them.”
“Not honeymoon.” Ali grinned. “She won’t even know she’s married. Family holiday. I buy the tickets. We all pack hand luggage. Drive to the airport together. Check in, even. I ask her to sit with Ahmed, up front, for politeness.You know Helen is very polite.”
“Go on,” his wife said, doubtfully.
“Our seats will be in back. Of course, they will get on the plane first. We will make to follow them, but we will not get on the plane. We will hang back with Firyal and Rashid. Then she will be on a plane to Cairo, with her husband, by herself!” He clapped his hands together and grinned. “Don’t worry, my darling.You’ve seen the photographs; Ahmed is very handsome. Helen will adjust. She will go to Ahmed’s beautiful house, he has servants, he is wealthy. I expect she may come back here pregnant, insh’Allah!”
“Jasmine will miss her,” Aisha sighed. She knew this was best, but the thought of sending her firstborn away made her want to cry.
“We’ll all miss her.” Ali hugged his wife. “But if we want her happiness, we will have to make sacrifices. Once she’s pregnant and has accepted him in her heart, they can come here, and we will all be a family again.”
Aisha nodded, but wept a little into his chest.
Ali stroked her hair fondly. His own marriage had been the most solid thing in his life, and he loved his strong-willed child enough to do right by her. Of course, at first she would feel betrayed, but soon she would understand.
CHAPTER 4
The day of the party dawned bright and clear.
All over town, girls were getting ready for it. Half—the lucky half—of Miss Milton’s Academy. Daughters of movie stars, studio heads, and other power brokers. Some models and actresses, and wives of famous athletes.
Everybody who was anybody.
Maureen Smith was not on the list. And nor were half her friends.
They sat in the walk-in closet of Julie Manners, watching her try to pick between eight different outfits. Seething with envy. Why couldn’t they go to the ball? Where was a fairy godmother when you needed one?
The Brat Pack were gonna be there! And maybe somebody from Guns N’ Roses. For heaven’s sake!
“You think the blue?” Julie held up an electric blue minidress, no longer than a T-shirt with pretensions.“Or the white?” Body-hugging to the extreme, it was practically see-through.
“Either’ll look great.” Tramp, Maureen thought. Just because they hung out together, didn’t mean she had to like Julie.
“Don’t know why you’re bothering to go,” Swan Cohen said petulantly. “It’s gonna be a real drag. None of us will be there.”
“Oh, I only want to see how lame it really is, so I can report back,” Julie lied, smiling sweetly at them.
Miss it! The party of the year! Hell, no. Sally Lassiter was a real bitch and so were her two stupid friends. But if you weren’t at
this party, you were dead in this town.
Everybody in the room knew it.
“I heard that they got that Jane Morgan scrubbed up. You know, that she looks like a human … ,” Swan said curiously.
“No way!” Julie was scornful. “Jane could turn milk sour. Crack mirrors. She’s, like, a total nerd. What the hell could they do with her?”
“And Helen Yanna …”
“That towel-head just trails around after Sally. She’s nothing to write home about. Don’t think Rob Lowe’s gonna be asking her for a dance.” Julie was scornful. “If the point is to show off those two, Sally’s gonna have wasted a whole lot of Daddy’s dollars… .”
“Don’t be so snippy, we all know you crawled to get that invite,” Maureen snapped.
“Sweetie,” Julie retorted acidly,“I don’t crawl. I think it’s gonna be fun to show the world that we’re the stars of Sally’s party.When all her hot dudes are asking for our phone numbers, Sally’s gonna feel way dumb.You get it?”
“Oh, yeah,” Maureen said sourly. “We” and “our” included Emma Lightfoot and Caroline Morse from their gang, but not her, Swan, Patsy, or Melissa. For the last two weeks they’d been at each other’s throats. “I get it alright.”
She wasn’t going to give Julie that cool new video console she’d been planning to get her for her birthday. Not anymore!
“I’ll have Emma take some pics to show you,” Julie said in a mollifying tone. She held up a green silk dress with an obscenely plunging neckline. “What about this one? Should steal the show from Sally and crew, don’t you think?”
“Whatever.”
“Maybe.”
The other girls chewed on their resentment, torn between wanting Sally’s party to fail, and wanting Julie to get shown up.
“You better hope so,” Julie warned, reading their minds. “Because we’re friends—do you want that Ay-rab and the limey laughing at you on Monday morning?”
They all shook their heads. Hell, no. After all, Sally had the power. She was the one withholding the invites—all to prop up her little gang of three.
They didn’t like Julie much, but they hated that lot.
“Go for the white,” Maureen said, speaking for all of them. “It’s way sexy.”
She hoped Helen and Jane didn’t get so much as a second glance from all the boys! Let this party be a disaster. Then, at school, they’d show them who was boss!
Green Gables was on fire.
Helen ran excitedly to the window of Sally’s enormous bedroom. It had a walk-in closet that was bigger than Helen’s lounge, its own bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi and stand-alone power shower, a separate dressing room, and a private kitchenette!
Wow. Helen wondered what it’d be like to have this much money. Her dad was comfortable, rich middle class, but compared to Sally they were nothing but paupers.
She wanted this kind of success.
“Look at that!” Another rocket arched into the sky and exploded, a fiery rain of stars and whistling comets descending on an awestruck crowd.The air was full of oohs and aahs.“Come on, Sal! We have to go down!”
The party had been raging—and that was the word—for two hours already. Mona kept popping her head in to report this movie star or that supermodel had arrived.
“Yes—let’s go!” Jane was surprised at her own eagerness. Dressed in the gown Sally had picked out for her, carefully madeup by a pro and spritzed with a little rosewater, she looked astonishingly lovely, and she knew it.
“We want to make an entrance.” Sally smirked.“This is our moment, ladies.We’re not going to blow it.”
“Aww, please … ,” Helen said. She did not want to miss the fireworks!
“Five more minutes. Momma’s getting them all ready.” Sally was in her element, supremely confident. “You’ll see.”
“Damn,” Julie Manners seethed. She was gyrating on the dance floor, but it was having no effect. Rob Lowe had been here, but hadn’t even looked her way.
“That preppy kid from Beverly Hills High was checking you out,” Emma suggested helpfully.
“Screw him!” Julie pushed her bangs out of her eyes. Who cared? He was probably some dentist’s kid… .
She was frustrated. All the girls from school were watching her and Emma like hawks. It was a battle for supremacy. The party was supremely, awesomely great, so now all that remained was to see who was the most beautiful. Those three girls had been the talk of the school for too long. How dare they hang out just with themselves? They were freaks … but Sally Lassiter had been the protector. Julie did not want to see Helen and Jane Morgan making it by themselves.
She was possessed by the sudden, deep loathing of a bully who suspects she’s about to see her victims succeed.
The music suddenly stopped, leaving Julie in mid grind. Emma sniggered. Julie scowled at her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice of the Lassiters’ real English butler came over the speakers.“Please welcome the birthday girl, Sally Lassiter, and her best friends, Miss Jane Morgan and Miss Helen Yanna!”
The glittering crowd, gathered around the dance floor, buzzed in anticipation. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs.
Julie Manners had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
And there they were. At the top of the stairs.
“Oh—my—gosh,” said Emma. “Oh, my gosh!”
There was a collective gasp.
Sally stood in the middle. Long blonde hair, va-va-voom body, illegal curves, in her form-fitting gold-sequined gown with scalloped neckline, looking like a Greek goddess—Aphrodite, the queen of love.
Holding her left hand was Helen Yanna in her flowing robes, statuesque as a model, makeup emphasizing her natural beauty, a diamanté circlet in her hair, her Arabian features exquisitely calm and confident. Golden slippers glittered on her feet.
And holding her right hand, glasses vanished, hair light and gorgeous, high cheekbones glowing under radiant skin, was dark-eyed Jane—perhaps the loveliest of all—the ugly duckling turned swan, with all the extra firepower of good old-fashioned shock.
The crowd froze for a moment. Sick with jealousy, Julie glanced around. She saw the men’s eyes narrowing with interest and admiration, the girls from school staring as if starstruck.
Then the applause broke out—and the cheering.
The orchestra struck up “Happy Birthday to You,” and the three girls started to walk downstairs, holding hands.Three babes. Three best friends. Unbreakable. Perfect.
Flashbulbs popped as the official photographers captured the moment. Julie knew just how that picture would look—a glorious capture of youth and a level of beauty that neither she, nor any of her friends, would ever be able to match.
Just before the well-wishers—and boys—swarmed in on the glittering trio, Julie saw Sally Lassiter scope the crowd and find her.
The birthday girl gave her an insolent, triumphant wink.
I hate her, Julie thought. I’ve got to destroy her!
But what could she do?
Those three girls—they were untouchable!
She saw that hot new movie star, the one from the serial killer flick with all the Oscars, go up to Jane Morgan—and ask her to dance!
It was just horrible.
Julie turned to Emma. “I’m leaving,” she said.
But Emma was gone. She was pushing through the crowd, shouting to get some attention.“Helen! Hey, Helen!” Julie heard her calling. “That’s a great dress … who’s the designer?”
There were two new queen bees in town. Furious, Julie stalked off to the cloakroom.
“I want my bag!” she yelled. “Like, pronto!”
Time to split. Seething, she stewed in her failure. Damn it all to hell. Would anything ever go wrong for these bitches? Well, when it did, she, Julie Manners, would be right there waiting.
She had no idea just how soon it was going to be.
Thousands of miles away, as his daughter partied,
British Ambassador Thomas Morgan was lurching up the carved oak staircase of his official residence.
The house on Massachusetts Avenue. He loved it. It had been the scene of so many of his triumphs. The intimate party for the Princess of Monaco. The state dinner for Vice President George H. W. Bush. The negotiations—tremendously secret, but bugged by both sides—between the UK and Russia over the Ukraine… .
And more.The scene of his personal rise … and he did mean rise.
The Hon.Thomas Morgan took a last, unsteady walk through his house. It was like taking a walk through a film … of his life, starring him. And hadn’t that been how it really was? He, the star? Emerging from the shadow of his oh-so-lucky big brother, James, the one with the title and the fabulous Elizabethan manor house. Second sons were awkward …James was the heir and he was the spare. In bygone ages they’d have shoved him into the Church. Right. He laughed wildly. Some priest he’d have made!
Ah, yes … the billiard room. He particularly loved it, because it had been the scene of so many great screws. Two of the sexy young nannies, right there on that table. A couple of desperate Washington housewives, longing to climb that social ladder. What a room! It was in there that he lived and breathed … there that he had his power.
Nobody more charming. Nobody more brilliant….
The grip of the drugs subsided in his mind, and for a second melancholia swept in. What the hell … what the hell did it all mean?
The unwelcome thought arose that maybe he hadn’t been that brilliant. Maybe he’d just been the best kiss-ass in town. A natural politician, one that could groom his lords and masters in London just as well as sucking up to the Yanks and assorted foreigners who comprised the social scene in America’s capital.
Maybe that wasn’t something to boast about. Fucking desperate women, poor immigrants without the right papers, nannies longing to keep their job and their shot at freedom … obsessed wives of other men, dumb enough to see the world through the same shallow blinkers he did.
Maybe he should have paid more attention to his daughter.
Maybe he shouldn’t have gambled.
Maybe he shouldn’t have taken those bribes….
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