“I think you have some serious thinking to do,” continued Alex with a grin. “I would estimate that you have at least two-thousand letters here. That represents two-thousand of your constituents. Another fourteen-thousand are in the bags out in the hall. Those are all people who won’t vote for you at the next election if you insist on tearing down that hotel.” Alex pulled out his card and handed it to the mayor. “I would really like to help you get re-elected. Think about it.” He walked out.
The next morning, Alex was at his desk when his secretary buzzed him. “There’s a call for you from the mayor on line one.”
Alex picked up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Mayor. What can I do for you today?”
The answer came back clearly over the static of the line. “I’ve given some thought to your idea. I think maybe we should talk.”
One month later, the New York Times carried the story on the front page of the Saturday edition.
NEW YORK LANDMARK SAVED FROM DESTRUCTION.
MAYOR WANTS GRAND PALACE TO BE RESTORED
Underneath in smaller captions followed the story of the famous hotel and of the company that had bought it with the intention of restoring it to its previous glamour. Alex couldn’t stop smiling as he read. He very nearly had the article framed.
Chapter 8
Anne Turner enjoyed breakfast in the kitchen of her new home. Across from her sat her husband, deeply focused on the newspaper he was reading. She took another sip of her coffee and sighed. “Why did you marry me if you can’t even bother to say two words to me in the morning?”
Her new husband pushed his bifocals back up his nose and kept reading.
She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Harry! I’m talking to you. Harry, look at me when I’m talking to you. I’m your wife, for Chrissake!”
Harry put down his newspaper wearily. “Believe me, dear. That is something I wish I could forget.”
Anne’s face turned a deep shade of red and she sat up straight. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It simply means, dear, that you remind me of that fact constantly.”
“Oh.” She let herself fall back against her chair. “Well, I expect you to behave like a husband. I don’t want to have to look at a newspaper every morning at breakfast. If I’d wanted that, I would simply have bought my own subscription to the New York Times. I would like to see your face once in a while.”
“Anne, I don’t know what you want from me. You asked me to marry you. I did! You said you wanted me to legally adopt your son. I did! You asked for a new house. I bought it! You said you needed a fur coat. You got it! Now I ask you. Would you kindly just let me read my paper in peace?” He picked up his newspaper again and resumed reading.
Anne glared at the newspaper. She was just about to add a few sharp words when a picture on the front page caught her eye. She leaned forward and looked at it more closely. “Let me see that.” She grabbed the front section from Harry and began to read. The disbelief on her face slowly transformed into one of pure fury. “That fucking son of a bitch. I don’t believe this!”
“What? Who are you talking about?”
“Him!” Anne shrieked back. “That son of a bitch, Alex Ivanov. He…” She started to explain then stopped herself in time.
“You know him?”
“Know him? I guess you could say that. He owes me some money,” she said. She looked up at her husband and stopped. “Oh, it wasn’t that much, and it was a long time ago.” Quickly, she changed the subject. “I just forgot—thank you for the lovely gift yesterday.” Anne gave him her sweetest smile. Inside, she was enraged. How dare Ivanov do this to me!
* * *
Chapter 9
The announcement that Power Properties was to restore the Grand Palace to its original splendor set off a flurry of publicity. Suddenly, it seemed that the main question around town was, ‘Who is Alex Ivanov?’ Time did a two-page story about, ‘The Man with the Power: His New Hotel and Casino,’ and almost overnight, Alex’s name became famous.
Everywhere he went, people recognized him from his picture in the paper. “That’s Alex Ivanov,” they whispered to one another as they vied for a closer look. Alex went about his business pretending not to notice.
To those close to him, he complained about the lack of privacy. “It’s like living in a damn fish bowl. Who needs it?”
In reality, he loved every minute of it. And when an awestruck stranger who noticed him also happened to be a beautiful young woman, he loved it even more.
Reporters and readers alike were fascinated. Alex Ivanov was a true American hero, a man who had come from nowhere and had climbed the ladder to immense success and wealth. Alex, eager to believe his own publicity, devoured every article. When one magazine described his style of dressing as conservative and uninspired, Alex was so upset, he couldn’t sleep that night. As huge as his ego had become, it was equally fragile. The day after the article with the negative comment, he went out and bought an entirely new wardrobe.
“What you need are clothes that spell power, if you’ll pardon the pun,” said the salesclerk, a stunning brunette with smoldering eyes. “You want your suits to be dark and expensive-looking. Your shirts should be crisp and well made. And your ties, they must be bold and dramatic. You wouldn’t want a wishy-washy looking tie, now would you?”
When Alex stepped out of the changing room, the pretty clerk nodded emphatically. “Now!” she said. “Now you look like the rich and powerful man that you are. By the way,” she added, “here’s my telephone number. You never know when you might need some help with your wardrobe.” The message was unmistakable.
Since Alex had ended the affair with Susan Temple years ago, his marriage had improved for a time, but instead of making him feel better, being in a close and loving relationship had only made him feel more uncomfortable. He was a married man, but instead of fairytale wedded bliss, he felt more like a man imprisoned. The more his wife tried to please him, the more he felt as though she was his jailer. His solution had been to have a continuous string of one-night stands. That way, he was able to prove to himself that he was still free. Nobody could dictate to Alex Ivanov what he could do and what he couldn’t. Not even his wedding vows.
Alex looked at the pretty clerk and felt the familiar rush of sexual excitement. He took the piece of paper and tucked it safely away in his billfold. “By any chance, would you happen to be free for dinner tonight?” he asked.
The sales clerk turned out to have an insatiable appetite.
What a lay she was! he thought after he had left her apartment. His prick grew to half-mast as he thought of the adoring look in her eyes. Although he had been tempted, he had wisely decided not to see her again. After Susan Temple, he vowed to never get involved with another woman. A fling was not getting involved, and Brigitte would never find out about it.
The next morning, Brigitte sat on the bed and watched as her husband took inordinate care in the knotting of his new, bright red tie. “Hmmm! You look good. Don’t let some pretty young thing get her claws into you,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Oh for Chrissake, Brigitte! My image is important. If I want people to know I’m successful, I have to look successful.”
His angry reaction surprised her. “Is it so important that people know you have money?” she asked.
“Money is power, my dear, and don’t you ever believe otherwise,” he answered, sounding exasperated.
He finished the last loop of his tie and stepped back to study the results. Seemingly satisfied, Alex turned to her. “You know, you should pay more attention to what you wear, too. After all, the way my wife looks is a direct reflection on me.”
After he left, Brigitte studied herself in the mirror. When was the last time Alex told me I look beautiful? she wondered, and could not remember. I’m still attractive. Her face was still beautiful, her skin soft and smooth. Her figure was slender, her breasts firm and full.
Incredibly, seve
n years had gone by since she and Alex had married. Five years since that terrible day she had found out about his affair, and had resigned herself to end her own career. Although she still missed her art terribly, she felt strongly that devoting herself to her husband had been the right thing to do.
My marriage is solid. If there is one thing I can be sure of, it’s Alex’s loyalty. A sudden sadness washed over her. If only I could have given Alex children of his own.
There had been no other children after David. The dozens of fertility specialists she had visited in her quest to give Alex a child had made it clear that she could never become pregnant again. Unfortunately, she only had herself to blame. The infection she had suffered from her attempted abortion so many years ago had rendered her barren. Memories came flashing back. She was in a bath full of hot water, pushing a wire deep inside herself. There came a sudden gush of blood. Then Marcel rushed her to the hospital. God, forgive me for that. She pushed the nightmarish memory away and picked up the telephone.
“Natalia? I need your help. I think it’s time I started looking more…you know…elegant.” She listened for a moment. “No, of course Alex is not criticizing me again. This is my own idea. Now, tell me, where should I start?”
With Natalia’s help she went shopping, and within a few months, photographs of the new, more fashionable Brigitte Ivanov began appearing in all the leading magazines. She was shown in Ladies’ Home Journal, inspecting the kitchen of the Grand Palace, dressed in a white Courrège outfit complete with white kid gloves and shoes. For Good Housekeeping, she wore a green silk evening dress and posed behind a lavishly decorated Thanksgiving dinner table. For Vogue, she went all out and took the crew on a tour of the new home she and Alex had bought, and for every shot, she wore a different designer gown.
Their new house was a sprawling white stone mansion set on five acres of impeccably groomed land. Black shutters framed every window and double pillars graced the sides of the massive carved front door above which Alex had hung a large, golden eagle. Inside, there were twelve bedrooms, including a master suite, complete with his-and-hers bathrooms and dressing rooms. The dining room comfortably sat forty and the living room was the size of a hotel salon.
“From now on, Réjeanne, I want you to feel like the mistress of the house,” Brigitte had told her when they moved in. “And I don’t want to see you lift a finger.” Réjeanne was given a private suite of her own, with large bath and living area, and she was replaced by a staff of five. There was an upstairs maid, a downstairs maid, a cook, a butler, and a driver for the new stretch limousine.
“I don’t know, Brigitte,” Réjeanne replied hesitantly. “I’m not used to all this. I don’t like having a stranger in my kitchen, and every time I turn around, someone is dusting and vacuuming my room. What am I supposed to do with myself?”
“Enjoy life,” said Brigitte firmly. “You are as much my family as Alex and David are. I don’t want to see you working anymore.”
Instead, Réjeanne simply took over the role of housekeeper and harassed the staff continuously. If so much as a speck of dust was discovered, the servant responsible for that area was immediately dispatched to, ‘Get rid of that dirt!’ Under Réjeanne’s sharp eye, the house was kept immaculate.
“I want this house to be a showplace,” Alex had told Brigitte after the signing. “God knows I have more than enough money to spend on decorating it. Why don’t you try to fix it up?”
How interesting that he calls it a house rather than home. Nevertheless, Brigitte threw herself into the project with abandon. She hunted down the top antique and art dealers and filled the house with priceless pieces.
When she suggested putting up a few of her own paintings, Alex vehemently refused. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want important pieces! Collector pieces. None of that modern crap!” His words stung, but Brigitte set to work.
Soon, there were Degas, Matisses, and Monets everywhere. In the dining room, the chandelier was from Czarist Russia. The pieces of furniture were original antiques from France, Austria, and Germany. The rugs were heirlooms and on the walls were priceless tapestries and hand-painted silks.
“This is the single most expensive private home in the area,” Alex boasted to anyone who would listen. “I spent millions to decorate it. Everything is the best that money can buy.”
Brigitte cringed every time. I wish he would care as much about us as he does about his image, she thought sadly.
No matter what, though, that was Alex, and she had vowed to love him as he was.
* * *
Chapter 10
The publicity machine droned on. One could scarcely walk by a newsstand without being confronted by at least a half dozen covers featuring both or either half of America’s fairy-tale couple. Alexander and Brigitte Ivanov had become the American equivalent of royalty.
They were in the sitting area off the master bedroom. Alex read one of the many magazines featuring an article about Brigitte that month. “What the hell is the matter with those reporters? They paid more attention to your clothes than to our four million dollar house.”
Brigitte put down her book. “You asked me to be more visible. Isn’t that what you wanted?” she asked, surprised.
“They never even mentioned me in the article,” Alex grumbled sullenly. He flung the magazine across the room and stormed out.
Brigitte was stunned. What does he want from me? She picked up the pile of magazines on the coffee table and flipped through them quickly. She was, ‘The woman behind the man,’ in one magazine; ‘The most stylish woman in America,’ in another, and New York’s, ‘Most gracious hostess,’ in yet another. She stood by her husband during interviews, smiling and talking about their perfect marriage. She had done everything Alex asked of her. Instead of being a person in her own right, she lived in the shadow of her husband—the dutiful wife, no more than an accessory on his arm.
Her only refusal had been when Alex suggested allowing David to be photographed. Brigitte had put her foot down at that.
“No! Absolutely not! I will not let my son be used for publicity.” Alex had been furious, but in the end he had no choice but to accept his wife’s decision. David was, after all, Brigitte’s son.
Brigitte put away the magazines and wandered downstairs to the sunroom where David was adding the finishing touches to his latest painting. At fourteen, David Alexander Dartois was tall and slender like his mother. Like Brigitte, he also had the ability to put paint onto a canvas and make a picture come to life.
“That is good!” exclaimed Brigitte from the doorway. The painting was of a sunset over a wide expanse of wheat fields. Even from a distance, she could see that the oil had strength, yet had peace about it. She walked over for a closer look. “It’s really very good! How would you like me to hang it in the library?”
“Would you?” asked the boy, thrilled. “But how would Alex feel about that?” he added uncertainly.
“I can’t imagine why he would object.”
A few days later, when the oil had dried, Brigitte took the painting out to be framed, and one week later it was hanging above the fireplace in the library. That night at dinner, Brigitte could hardly wait for Alex to finish his meal. “David has a surprise for you in the library,” she said. “Follow me.”
“I don’t have time right now,” Alex answered sullenly as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I have a meeting, and unless I leave now, I’ll be late.”
Brigitte saw the disappointment on her son’s face. “Oh, please, Alex. It will only take a minute,” she insisted, sending her husband a pleading look.
“Only for a minute,” he relented. Alex followed Brigitte and David grudgingly into the room.
“What’s that?” asked Alex when he noticed the painting.
David stood by nervously while Alex inspected it.
“So, what do you think?” asked Brigitte eagerly.
“It’s not bad,” answered Alex. “But I don’t know what the big deal is. We have
Renoirs and Matisses all over the house. We even have a Rembrandt in the dining room. I’ve never even heard of…” He leaned forward to read the signature. “Who the hell is D.E.D.?”
“David Etienne Dartois,” said David softly. He watched the surprise on Alex’s face. “Do you like it?” he asked, his tone full of hope.
“Yes,” said Alex, still stunned. “I do. It’s very good, David.” He gave the boy an affectionate slap on the back. “Now, you go on off to do your homework. Your mother and I have a few things we need to talk about.”
“Okay,” answered David easily. “But you really mean it? You like my painting?”
“Yes I do, David. It’s very nice. Now, you be a good boy, and leave us alone for a minute.”
David looked so happy. Brigitte smiled, too. This was the first compliment she had ever heard Alex give David. It must have meant a lot. “Sure. Night, Maman. Night, Alex.” He trudged out of the room beaming from his stepfather’s compliment.
As soon as David was out of earshot, Alex turned back to Brigitte. “Why are you encouraging him this way?” he demanded angrily.
Brigitte was aghast. “But, Alex, what harm is there in encouraging David in an area in which he is so obviously talented?”
“David has enormous potential. He’s brilliant. He doesn’t even try and he gets straight A’s in all his lectures. His professors love him! He could do so much with his life. Why the hell would you want him to be a stupid artist? I think it’s time I started taking an interest in your son’s activities. Just because you wanted to be an artist, there is no reason for you to try and steer David in that direction. And frankly, his painting is not bad, but I certainly don’t think it’s brilliant.”
Scorpio Series Boxed Set Page 31