Scorpio Series Boxed Set

by Monique Domovitch

  Before Brigitte could say a word, Alex had left. A moment later she heard the front door close. Exhaustion washed over her, leaving her feeling helpless. No matter how hard she tried, nothing she did ever pleased her husband. She slumped into a chair, and began to cry.

  “Don’t cry, Maman.”

  She looked up, startled. “David! What are you doing here?”

  “I-I was outside…”

  “Oh, David.” Brigitte was heartbroken. “Don’t tell me you overheard.”

  David smiled weakly. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I know Alex loves me and he only wants what’s best for me.”

  Brigitte opened her arms. “Come here, mon chéri.” She wrapped her arms around him. “You’re right. Alex does love you. But you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. You are absolutely perfect just the way you are.” For a long time, Brigitte sat there, cradling her nearly adult son. It felt so incredibly wonderful, holding him and hugging him like that. It had been way too long since the last time she had done that. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?” she asked.

  David chuckled. “Oh, Mom! You tell me all the time.”

  * * *

  The official reopening of the Grand Palace was scheduled for the first of June. The event was planned with the meticulous detailing of a royal coronation. On the evening of the opening ball, guests were greeted at the door by a dozen sculpted young men, dressed in official, bright red British guard uniforms, complete with swords and tall fur hats. Inside, a stiff and formal butler carefully inspected each invitation before guiding the guests toward a majordomo who called out the names of every new arrival to the packed ballroom below.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hemsley,” he called out, his voice booming above the gentle strains of the string quartet in the far corner of the room. “Mr. and Mrs. Forbes.”

  Alex beamed, resplendent in his tuxedo. Brigitte wore a light blue taffeta and tulle creation sprinkled with rhinestones, and looked every bit the fairy-tale princess the press continuously likened her to. She smiled and shook hands with each guest, struggling to keep faces and names together. “Good evening, Mr. Forbes. It was good of you to come. Mrs. Forbes, what a beautiful gown. Is it a Dior?”

  With a toss of her head and a tight little smile the woman replied, “Yes, of course. I won’t wear anything but French designs.”

  Mr. Forbes turned his attention to Alex. “Call me Malcolm, please. Great job you’ve done here.”

  “Thank you, Malcolm.”

  “The way you’re going, young man, you’ll be making my Fortune Five Hundred list someday soon.”

  “I sure plan to, Malcolm. I sure do plan to.”

  Gerald Masson and his new girlfriend—a tall, thin brunette by the name of Carla—Andrew McGregor, and Natalia Berenson completed the receiving line. Natalia, all two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of her, looked stunning in her usual double thickness of false lashes and a black sequined Bob Mackie gown.

  “You look absolutely gorgeous,” said Brigitte to Natalia as soon as the last guest had gone by to join the crowd below. She couldn’t help stealing curious glances at Carla.

  “It just goes to show! You can never have too much of a good thing,” Natalia replied with a deep throaty laugh, sending her body jiggling.

  “You’re absolutely right,” added Alex, thinking of the profits he would make on the Royal Palace. “You can never have too much of a good thing.” He noticed the reporter for the New York Times and rushed off to join him.

  “Did you visit the royal suite?” he asked him. “Did you get the photographer to take pictures of the lobby?” he continued. “What a monument to myself! I ask you. What can I ever do to beat this?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the reporter as he scribbled down Alex’s comments. “But I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mr. Ivanov.”

  After dinner, the string quartet was replaced by a rock and roll band. For the rest of the evening, the women hitched up their long skirts, the men shed their dinner jackets, and they all danced the night away to the modern sounds of The Beatles, ‘Hard Day’s Night’, the Rolling Stones, ‘No Satisfaction’, and The Beach Boys, ‘Surf City’. Never had such a glittering crowd had such fun.

  Gerald and Brigitte watched indulgently as Alex boogied, gyrated, and grooved with one attractive guest after another. After an energetic rock and roll number, he hurried back to the table. “Gerald, you don’t mind if I steal this lovely lady from you, do you?”

  “Be my guest,” replied Gerald, and he watched them make their way to the dance floor. He had seen the way Carla had been flirting with Alex during the evening; and he also knew Alex well enough to realize that he would not resist. I guess I might as well forget her number.

  Over the years, Gerald had become aware of Alex’s numerous infidelities and had often struggled with his desire to tell Brigitte. In the end, he had decided that would be a mistake. Alex’s behavior was so flagrant that if Brigitte did not know by now, it could only be because she did not want to know.

  If she were my wife, he thought. I wouldn’t want any other woman. He had long ago abandoned any idea of a relationship with Brigitte. She was married and very loyal to her husband. Even more importantly, he would not have been comfortable having an affair with a married woman. Of course, if ever Alex and Brigitte were to divorce, that would be a different story.

  He looked at Brigitte again and leaned in toward her. “Would you care to join me on the dance floor?” he asked. The band had just picked up the first few chords of, ‘Roll over Beethoven’.

  “Thanks, Gerald. I think I’d rather just sit this one out if you don’t mind.”

  “Did you know that one of this hotel’s greatest patrons used to be Marjorie Meriwether Post?” he continued, in an effort to draw Brigitte into a conversation.

  “I had no idea,” she answered politely.

  “She must be rolling over in her grave tonight,” he said, and suddenly felt overwhelmed with love for the wife of his partner. For years now, he had kept a safe distance from Brigitte, out of respect for both her and her husband. He had even tried to develop relationships with other women, but invariably, thoughts of his partner’s wife interfered. Brigitte must be aware of the way I feel about her. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Gerald.” Brigitte seemed hesitant for a moment. Then she put her hand on his arm and continued, “You are a dear friend. I hope we shall always be dear friends.” The words were affectionate, but the meaning behind them was clear. She wanted nothing more than friendship from him.

  Gerald sighed and turned his attention back to the crowd of dancers as they boogied to the music. Brigitte sat quietly. If only Alex were more like Gerald, she thought, feeling guilty for feeling disappointed in her marriage. Lately it seemed to weigh heavily on her shoulders.

  The ball ended as the first rays of the morning sun rose above the city. After some champagne, scrambled eggs, and caviar for breakfast, the guests began to leave the hotel in a procession of Rolls Royces and limousines.

  After everyone had departed, Alex joined Brigitte, Gerald, and Carla at the table. “What a great party!” he exclaimed. “New York hasn’t seen a party like this in years.”

  “So Alex, now that the Grand Palace is completed, what will Power Properties do for an encore?” asked Carla, her eyes full of admiration.

  “I’ll find something,” answered Alex importantly. “Believe me, I’ll find something.”

  Alex did not search for long. At the next board meeting, he made the announcement to his vice-presidents. “In answer to the question everyone is asking,” he said, beaming with excitement. “Power Properties’ next project is to build the largest and most luxurious casino in America. How is that for an encore?”

  “A casino? Are you crazy? Why would we want to get involved with gambling?” asked Gerald, stunned.

  “Why? Because, casinos are the best way to make a legal killing. One casino will make more mon
ey in one year than the Grand Palace can make in a hundred.”

  Andrew McGregor glanced at Gerald. “You know Alex,” he said to his partner, shrugging. “Once he has his mind set on something…”

  “I know, I know,” replied Gerald. “And what will we call this casino?”

  Alex grinned. “The Power Hotel and Casino, what else?”

  It took nearly a year of legal wrangling until the permit for the casino was issued, and another two years for the construction to be completed. When it opened, The Power, as the newspapers referred to it, was the single most luxurious hotel casino in the country. The lobby alone cost over two million dollars with pink Italian marble specially flown in from Italy and gold-plated fixtures from Germany. There were three restaurants, one to cater to every taste and budget.

  “And the best one,” said Alex to his wife when he showed her the plans. “Will be a French restaurant called, ‘Brigitte’s.’ How do you like that sweetheart?”

  “I love it!” exclaimed Brigitte. “And I love you, mon chéri.” This time, for a change, he returned her admiring look. Sometimes Alex would surprise her and do something entirely unexpected and totally romantic.

  At the Power Hotel and Casino, every one of the one thousand bedrooms on the thirty was exquisitely decorated. Alex had convinced Brigitte to supervise the decorating of the hotel, and she had done him proud. The furniture was elegant and tasteful. The bedspreads and window dressings were of the finest materials. The pillows were goose-down. The towels were of thick Egyptian cotton. Even the sheets were nothing less than Pratesi.

  “I want nothing but the best for my casino,” said Alex repeatedly to his reluctant board of directors as he approved every luxurious detail. “I want it to be known that Alex Ivanov will spare no expense to make his guests feel comfortable.”

  Six months after the official opening, The Power Hotel and Casino was the largest-grossing casino in Atlantic City. “What did I tell you?” he asked Andrew McGregor, who had loudly objected to the enormous expenditures. “You have to spend money, to make money.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  The offices of Power Properties had changed considerably over the years. Now, a large reception area with pearl grey wall-to-wall carpeting and ultra-suede upholstered furniture invited guest in. There was a projection room where potential buyers were shown a ten minute promotional film about the many projects of the company with the velvety voice of Frank Sinatra’s, ‘New York, New York’ in the background. Elegant, efficient secretaries and assistants, answered telephones and ran around taking dictation and typing letters.

  Some days, Alex would walk in and stop, amazed. I did it, he told himself. Everything I wanted to achieve, I achieved. What more can I possibly want? The answer was invariably the same. More! I want more!

  * * *

  They sat around the boardroom table discussing possible new projects.

  “Why don’t we build hotels?” asked Natalia. “With the experience we’ve earned with The Power Hotel and Casino, building more hotels would be the natural next step.”

  “I’ve heard the Excellence chain of hotels is having some financial problems. Maybe we should look into it,” added Andrew.

  “What do you say, Alex?” asked Gerald Masson. “I’m almost sorry I sold my own hotels twelve years ago. If I’d known Power Properties might someday be interested in hotels, I would have held onto them and made myself a billion dollars selling them to Alex.”

  “I have an idea,” said Alex, not amused. He paused for a moment, enjoying the way his vice-presidents grew silent as they respectfully waited for his opinion. “I think it’s time New York got the tallest, most beautiful and most expensive luxury apartment building the world has ever seen.”

  Natalia shook her head. “Be reasonable, Alex. New York has plenty of luxury buildings.”

  “Nothing like what I have in mind.”

  The following month, Alex announced to the world his plans to build Power Building. It would be one hundred stories high. The exterior would be entirely covered with smoky glass. Inside would be an atrium, complete with waterfalls, a jungle of tropical plants, rolling brass escalators, and a few dozen small, but very exclusive boutiques that would cater to the most discerning of shoppers. The apartments would be the most expensive the world had ever seen; private elevators for the tenants, indoor swimming pools, and living rooms with sunken floors. There would be private exercise rooms, ballrooms, and even a landing pad on the roof for helicopters.

  One year before it was completed, the Power Building was sold out. Word had leaked out that Khashoggi had bought an entire floor and that Gloria Vanderbilt had reserved the penthouse. Almost overnight, the Power Building had become the trendy address for the rich and famous.

  * * *

  Fame and fortune, Alex believed, were the keys that opened all doors. Since his early success with the Grand Palace, invitations from clubs and organizations and social cliques kept pouring in.

  They sorted through the usual number of invitations in the room Alex called, ‘The Library.’ In reality, it was no more than a large, mahogany-paneled room with wall-to-wall bookcases filled with priceless sculptures, a variety of heavy silver-framed photographs of Alex with other famous people, and a few books.

  “I have singlehandedly doubled the value of New York real estate,” Alex boasted proudly. “How’s that for an encore? Now, you tell me. What can I do to beat that?”

  “You’ll think of something,” answered Brigitte. Unfortunately, you’ll surely think of something. Over the years, Alex had changed. It had been impossible not to notice and nearly impossible to ignore. Brigitte had grown used to keeping her thoughts to herself, though.

  Instead of making him happy and content, his achievements seemed to leave him dissatisfied. He was a man possessed, always wanting more, and more, and more. When will this madness end?

  “A few years ago, these people would not have given us the time of day,” said Alex, shaking his head in amazement at the dozens of invitations before him.

  “I know,” answered Brigitte. “It makes me wonder how honest some of those friendships really are.”

  “Don’t be so naïve. All it means is that I have worked damned hard, and that people are giving me the respect I deserve.” He paused for a moment then continued. “You know, we should think about getting a swimming pool. If we want to entertain properly in the summer, we’ll need one.”

  “I-I don’t know Alex. With David’s heart condition, wouldn’t that just be encouraging him to participate in an activity he really shouldn’t be doing?”

  “For Chrissake, Brigitte,” Alex exploded. “I am so fed up with hearing about David’s heart condition. The boy is perfectly healthy and he is nearly seventeen years old. When are you going to let him have a normal life?”

  “I-I am…”

  “You call it normal that a boy his age is not allowed to participate in sports? You call it normal that you still drive him to graduate school every day and won’t ever allow him to go on vacation with his friends. He should be playing tennis, going out with girls. Instead, you keep him cooped up inside, painting. You are the worst kind of a mother. You are so damned selfish, you convince yourself your son wants a career as an artist simply because that’s what you wanted for yourself. You are living your life vicariously through David.”

  Alex’s harsh words stung and Brigitte struggled to keep from crying. “That is an outright lie. David is a very gifted artist. I only want to encourage his talent. If he wanted to do something else with his life, I would certainly not stand in his way.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, David is probably the closest I will ever come to having a son. Have you ever given any thought to what I might want for him? I run a multi-million dollar empire. Maybe I’d like to groom him to take over someday.”

  Brigitte’s head spun. Alex had never mentioned any interest in preparing David for such an eventuality. If anything, Alex had seemed to lose inter
est in David over the years. Lately, the two were no more than polite strangers.

  Alex was still livid. “I want a swimming pool, and I’m going to get one. And furthermore, David is going to learn to swim.”

  A few days later when the designers arrived, Alex greeted them at the door with dozens of pictures and drawings of lavish pools. “I want a big one, and I want it to look expensive,” he told the men.

  Two months later, the work on the swimming pool was completed. “It’s Olympic size,” explained the proud contractor as he handed Alex the bill. “Fully heated, too, so the temperature will never dip beneath eighty-five degrees.”

  “And more important,” added Alex, laughing proudly. “It’s the most damned expensive swimming pool around.”

  * * *

  David had grown into a fine young man. For years, his epilepsy had been kept under tight control. There were dozens of pills and countless visits to the doctor, and always the explanation to everyone about David’s, ‘heart condition.’

  Over the years, Brigitte had developed a knack for being able to predict whenever David was about to have a seizure. Before an episode, he was just a bit quieter, a little less outgoing, and less able to concentrate than usual. Whenever Brigitte noticed those signs in David, it was her signal to keep him away from lecture that day. Luckily, the few episodes that occured happened at home where Brigitte and Réjeanne were able to care for him, away from the rabid eyes of the press. His condition was monitored regularly and his dosage of medicine increased whenever it was deemed necessary. David’s epilepsy was kept so secret that even Alex was unaware of it.