She reminded herself to stock up on lip gloss.
“PR response to what? Surely there’s not that much more to be said on Blakely’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 messenger.
“There’s an article in a magazine I think Mr. Piato 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.”
“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 sexual-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 around and gave a brisk order to his office manager. “Pick up all the calls that are holding, apologize 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 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 fucking 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 ever had, 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-hunter … The thrilling accusations of the rival she replaced!
“What the fuck?” Michael said, angry.
“It’s your ex-girlfriend. Tina Armis. She spilled her guts.” Harry flicked over to the centerfold 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 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 premières 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 … who, 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 pièce de résistance. 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—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.”
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 the picture 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 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 cal
ling 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 plowed 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 around 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 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. Verity 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.
“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 to it soon.
“I 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 favor, 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.”
FORTY-FOUR
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 balling his fist and smashing it into the side of the limey prick’s nose was tantalizing, 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 centerfold. 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 realized 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 the bonuses and raises 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 parlors. 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 w
ould she want with someone from the Bronx? But, said that nagging little voice, right now you’re someone from the Bronx with twenty million bucks. And Tina says she knew you had that money coming.
Diana had gotten 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 low 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 make-up 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 had 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.
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