“Thank you, Gavin.” Idly, he began leafing through the stack of letters. “That will be all.”
Annoyingly, there didn’t appear to be anything from his New York lawyer. He was waiting on some documents that were supposed to have arrived by FedEx yesterday. As he was due to fly back to Switzerland later tonight, they’d be no use to him if they arrived in London tomorrow. It was all very aggravating.
Picking up his cell, he jabbed out a number.
“They’re still not here,” he barked into the handset, so loudly that Mitzi jumped. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Relax.” Josh Schwartz, one of Anton’s many lawyers, was used to his client’s capricious moods. “They’ll show up. I’ll get copies faxed to you in Geneva in the meantime. But listen, I have good news on a different front.”
“What?” Anton sounded distinctly nonchalant.
“I think I’ve finally dug up some dirt on Morty Sullivan.”
Anton sat up, interested. Now this was good news. Mortimer Sullivan was the dreadful old fossil who chaired the planning committee in East Hampton. For some years now, Anton had had his eye on the town as a perfect spot to open a new Tischen. The once-great Palmers had long since declined into mediocrity, and with Trey Palmer apparently on his last legs, usurped by his own utterly inexperienced daughter by all accounts, its position was looking more vulnerable than ever. The problem was that the town seemed to be run like the Palmer family’s private fiefdom. Whenever Anton had found a suitable building to convert or plot to build on, he’d been denied permission to fart there by Sullivan and his small-minded, sycophantic cronies. Those guys didn’t want any change at all, never mind some upstart European showing up to build one of his flashy hotels in their backyard. It was the same old story, and Anton was heartily sick of it. “Tell me more,” he said, licking his lips with anticipation of the juicy gossip to come. “Is it something we can use?”
“Hell, yeah.” Josh was actually laughing now. As far as Anton knew, his lawyer hadn’t so much as broken a smile since his ex-wife’s rottweiler of a divorce attorney got shot in the balls in a freak hunting accident. This must be good. “It involves a twenty-two-year-old dancer called Danny Carlucci. I’m looking at the Polaroids right now. If this doesn’t get the guy to back off, nothing will.”
Handing Mitzi the last quarter of toast, Anton hung up, smiling broadly. This business in the papers with Heidi had put him in a foul mood, but at last he felt it lifting. Yesterday’s Evening Standard would be tomorrow’s fish and chips wrapping anyway. People would forget about the story soon enough. Whereas the prospect of a new Tischen in the Hamptons? Now that was something lasting, something real.
Trey Palmer’s daughter might not realize it yet, but her special relationship with the East Hampton planning committee was about to come to an abrupt end. And just in time.
Waking up with a start, Honor looked at the time on the little electric clock by her bedside. It was ten fifteen.
“Fuuuck,” she groaned quietly to herself. How had that happened? Admittedly she’d had a late and drunken night. She’d done a good job appearing together and in control on the boat, saying her good-byes to Devon. But as soon as she got back to Palmers she’d headed straight for her suite and the drinks cabinet and proceeded to take herself out on vodka, drinking into the small hours. The last thing she wanted was for him to realize how desperately she needed him and how much she dreaded his departure. They’d only been seeing each other a few weeks. She mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t scare him off.
If Devon was confused by their blossoming relationship, Honor felt completely undone by it. Part of her lived for the brief hours they spent together. But another, larger part was gripped by a permanent, cold panic. OK, so his marriage was a sham, but he was still married, and with children too. After all the lectures she’d given Tina, what the hell was she doing, playing fast and loose with her own reputation and, by extension, Palmers’? She knew she ought to break it off, for a myriad of reasons. But she’d been so lonely for so long the thought of letting Devon go made her want to vomit. Subconsciously, she’d looked for father figures in the past. But in Devon she’d really, truly found one. He was so strong, so solid, so rocklike and reassuring. And sexually, he’d cracked her in a way that no one else ever had.
At some point during her drunken marathon last night, Honor couldn’t recall exactly when, Tina had called. With her usual uncanny sense of bad timing, she’d picked this of all nights to moan about how hard her life in LA was without Danny.
“It’s all right for you,” she whined. “You’re far too sensible ever to fall for a married man.” Tina made the word “sensible” sound like the most pointed of insults. “You don’t know what it’s like, knowing that person is out there but that you can’t have them. It’s hell, Honor. Hell. You have no idea what I’m going through.”
It took a superhuman effort of will for Honor to keep her mouth shut about Devon, but somehow she managed it. Sharing any kind of sensitive information with her sister was tantamount to posting it on Facebook. Tina had about as much discretion as a foghorn, as Honor knew to her cost.
Having finally managed to get Tina off the phone, it rang again almost immediately. This time it was Lise, bitching that she wasn’t getting any help with the rapidly declining Trey.
“I’m on my own here with him twenty-four seven,” she complained. “He can’t even use the bathroom by himself anymore. It’s disgusting.” If she was looking for a sympathetic ear, she’d come to the wrong place.
“You married a guy old enough to be your father,” slurred Honor. “What did you expect? Besides, he has two full-time nurses, Lise. No one’s expecting you to play Florence Nightingale.”
“Like hell they aren’t,” Lise snapped. “Those nurses are lazy as shit. And what the hell happened to you and Tina, anyway? When was the last time either of you visited him?”
This was below the belt.
“He refuses to see me,” Honor mumbled, a knot of confused emotion forming in the pit of her stomach like a tumor, even through her drunkenness. “You know that. I’m trying to put things right at Palmers, for him more than anyone. I’m working nonstop here.”
“Jesus, Honor, don’t you get it?” Lise interrupted viciously. “Your dad doesn’t care about Palmers. The man’s incontinent, OK? He’s a retard.”
Honor hung up at that point and kicked up the alcohol consumption to a whole new level. Maybe it was losing her father that was making this thing with Devon so painfully important to her? She had in fact been back to Boston twice since taking over at Palmers, trips she could ill afford, but Trey had refused to let her onto the property. Back in East Hampton, she called three times a week, but not once had he allowed her to be put through. He’d told her in Sam Brannagan’s office that he would never forgive her for taking control of his assets. So far, it looked as though he intended to be as good as his word.
Waking up this morning, Honor felt like someone had thrown the mother of all Fourth of July parties inside her cranium. Fumbling in the drawer of her bedside table for some aspirin, she crammed three into her mouth without water before throwing off her covers and staggering into the shower.
Slowly, as the warm jets of water pounded onto her aching body, she started to feel more alive. Squirting a dollop of her favorite lemongrass shower gel into her palms, she began rubbing it all over her body, working up a lather that she massaged into her hair and face as well. She wanted to wash away all traces of last night and was starting to enjoy the tingling sensation on her skin when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shower curtain twitch.
There wasn’t even time to panic. Ripping the rubbery fabric aside, still half-blinded by soapsuds, she let out a blood-curdling shriek, launching herself on her would-be attacker with a well-placed kick to the groin.
“You fucker!” she yelled, kicking and punching and scratching blindly as adrenaline translated her fear into anger. “You piece of shit!”
“Honor!” It took a second or two for Devon’s voice to penetrate the fog in her brain. “For God’s sake stop, Honor. It’s me.”
“Devon?” Opening her eyes at last, she saw him lying beneath her on the tiled bathroom floor, half shielding his face with one arm. “What are you doing here? You should be on a plane to Boston.”
“Lola wasn’t ready to go,” he panted. “And neither was I. I had to see you again.”
Despite the searing pain in his balls from where she’d kicked him, the sight of her leaning over him naked, dripping, and still slippery with soapsuds was making him hard already. Reaching up around her neck, he pulled her beautiful, elfin face down until the tips of their noses touched, then let his hands glide down the wet runway of her back to rest on her butt.
“You scared me,” she whispered, closing her eyes as she felt his fingers slipping around her hips and disappearing into the damp triangle of her pubic hair. So much for wrestling with her conscience. She could no more finish things with Devon than fly to the moon, and she knew it.
“Not half as much as you scared me.” Unzipping his jeans, he freed his now rock-solid erection. “You might have warned me you had a black belt in karate.”
Easing herself down onto his dick, Honor began rocking slowly back and forth, her hangover suddenly quite forgotten. Her face was pressed against his now, and she found herself doing something she never normally did: looking right into his eyes while he made love to her.
Before long, despite his best efforts at restraint, Devon felt his orgasm building.
“Oh, God,” he moaned, looking almost in pain as he bit into her shoulder and came deep inside her. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it. I…shit, Honor, what’s wrong?”
Opening his eyes, he saw tears streaming down her face. Still inside her, he sat up and wrapped both arms around her.
“Shhhh,” he whispered, gently stroking her hair as her sobs became stronger and more violent. “What is it, my darling? What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, wiping the tears away almost angrily with the back of her hand.
“No,” she said. “You were fine. You were lovely. You are lovely. I didn’t…” She was still struggling to get her breath, she’d been crying so hard, and was obviously having trouble getting the words out. “I didn’t want you to see it.”
“See what?” he said gently.
“How much I love you.” Biting down on her trembling lower lip, she looked like a lost and frightened little girl. Devon felt a surge of love and protectiveness flood over him, tinged with the slightly less noble feeling of triumph. “How much I don’t want you to go away from me. Ever.”
It all came out then: the feelings she’d tried so hard to hide from him yesterday, Tina’s phone call, her deep, profound unhappiness about her father and his continued refusal to see her.
“It’s OK, baby.” Holding her, he listened patiently while all the stress of the past months came pouring out.
“No,” Honor shook her head again. “It’s not. It’s not OK, Devon. Palmers is a mess. I thought I could just come in here and fix everything, but I can’t. It’s going to take years, and the whole town’s against me. They all think I ripped Dad off.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Devon, who knew that it was but didn’t want to hurt her. If anything, the East Hampton gossips were even more small-minded and belligerent than their Boston counterparts.
“It is true!” Honor wailed. “And now you’re leaving me, and I need you, and I don’t want to need you; I don’t want to need anyone.”
“Shhh.” He stopped her with a kiss. “I need you too. I do. And I’m not leaving you. I have to go back home, but I’m gonna get out here to see you. Regularly.”
“But how?” Try as she might she couldn’t seem to stop her bottom lip from wobbling again. What was she, six? “You have a job. You have a wife, a family, a whole life in Boston. And I have Palmers. I can’t leave.”
“I know,” he said. “I know all that. But you just have to trust me. We’ll find a way. I know your old man let you down and you’ve had to learn to deal with everything, with Palmers and your sister and all this shit on your own. But those days are gone now, Honor. You have me. You’ll always have me, I promise.”
He sounded so strong and so reassuring she longed to believe him.
“Now get dressed, and get on the phone,” he said, pulling her up to her feet. “Whatever you have on your schedule today, cancel it.”
Honor was about to protest, but he held up his hand for silence, and for some reason she found herself complying.
“Tell people you have the flu. Tell them whatever you want,” he said. “But for the next six hours, you’re mine and mine alone.”
“OK.” She smiled. “But we can’t spend the whole time…you know.”
“Fucking?” Devon laughed.
“I mean it,” said Honor. “I really need your advice about Palmers. Legal advice. The surveyors handed in their structural report last night, and it’s pretty grim reading.”
“You want to spend our last hours together going over a surveyors’ report?” He looked at her incredulously, then shook his head. “You love me, but you love Palmers more, right?”
Honor gave him her very best, most adoring smile. But she didn’t correct him.
CHAPTER SIX
ARE YOU SURE you don’t want me to stay a little longer?”
The girl loitering in the doorway of Lucas’s apartment fluttered her eyelashes and gave him the full force of the pouty, wide-eyed look that had made her the hottest model in London this season.
“Because I really don’t mind.”
Lucas, wearing only a white towel tied around his waist, marveled again at her incredible body, shown off to perfection in a pair of skinny jeans and a tight white sweater, and felt his resolve fraying at the edges. They’d been screwing all afternoon, but he reckoned he had more than enough energy for a third round if she did.
But no, he shouldn’t. It was the big Christmas party at the Cadogan tonight. Julia was probably already furious that he wasn’t at work right now—bossy, overbearing cow that she was.
“You’re sweet, Georgie,” he said, rubbing a hand against his stubble and realizing belatedly that he needed a shave before tonight as well. “But maybe next time, hey? Tonight’s a big night for me.”
The girl shrugged and kissed him on the cheek. “Your loss, Lucasito,” she said. Flicking her long blonde hair behind her, she skipped off down the stairs, calling out, “Oh, and merry Christmas!” over her shoulder as she disappeared from view.
“Thanks,” sighed Lucas to himself. Walking back into the apartment, he shut the door behind him. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
He’d been in London for five months now, at the Cadogan for four of them, and had already made a considerable splash on the social scene. With his Heathcliff looks and moody confidence added to the intoxicating whiff of his dangerous other-side-of-the-tracks background, he was an immediate hit with all the well-bred Chelsea heiresses, who’d taken to hanging around the hotel like groupies, hoping to get a crack at him. His job at the Cadogan gave him instant access to London’s notoriously exclusive clubland, and to all outward appearances he appeared to have gained overnight acceptance among the city’s bright young things. Night after night he could be seen squiring the most eligible girls to Annabel’s and Tramp, and by day, in the rare hours when he wasn’t working, he was a familiar figure in the West End, tearing around the streets of Soho on his Ducati motorbike like a Spanish James Dean.
But beneath the veneer of glamour, the reality was that he was still only a small step above broke. Anton paid him a fair wage at the Cadogan and partially subsidized his bachelor pad on St. James’s, which was a godsend. But the crowd that Lucas moved in, a mixture of trust-fund brats, city whiz kids, and old-money aristocracy, all had disposable incomes to burn, and he was painfully aware of his own inadequate funds as he tried to keep up
. Most of the men in his circle knew that he was struggling and, already jealous of his popularity with the It-girls and models that had swooned over them before Lucas showed up, responded by patronizing him socially. This, naturally, drove Lucas insane with rage, and he nursed his wounded pride like a stuck bull. If they’d openly challenged him, he’d have been able to hit back. But in typically British style, their exclusion of Lucas was far more subtle and insidious than that. So a group of Goldman bankers would happily share a table with him at a restaurant or club, and might even invite him to drinks parties. But when it came to shooting weekends at Blenheim or boys-only ski breaks to Verbier, Lucas only ever heard about it after the fact. Not that he could have afforded to go anyway, but it would have been nice to be asked. In Lausanne, the European rich kids had accepted him without reservation. But British snobbery, he was beginning to discover, was of quite a different order. Outwardly, he pretended not to care about being snubbed. Inside, however, he was more determined than ever to beat the British bastards at their own game, and it wasn’t long before he was living well beyond his means.
Despite these irritating problems, he had grudgingly come to enjoy London. Though he still bitched about the weather and the cost of living (black cabs in particular were astronomical, although he couldn’t seem to break himself of the habit) he had to admit that the city was magically transformed at Christmastime. Everywhere he went, shop windows were illuminated with brightly colored displays, and the old Victorian street lamps were adorned with mini Christmas trees, simply lit in white, that gave the darkening afternoons a cozy, Dickensian glow. From his bachelor pad Lucas could see the shoppers darting to and fro between Fortnum’s and the Burlington Arcade, stocking up on presents and candies and every possible variety of ribbons, bows, and rolls of shiny metallic paper to wrap them all up in. Though the promised snow had yet to materialize, the frost transformed the park every night into a gray-white wonderland, making Lucas’s early-morning walk to work one of the highlights of his day.
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