The Slaters were Essex to the core and about as close as a family could be. Ben was the youngest and the only boy, but despite those two facts he’d never been mollycoddled as a child. He and his two sisters, Karen and Nikki, grew up in a poky little terraced house on Canvey Island. His mum and dad still lived on the island, although these days “home” was a sprawling single-story mansion that Ben had bought for them, complete with a five-car garage and an outdoor Jacuzzi they never used but were inordinately proud of nonetheless. Karen, married to a local hairdresser she’d been dating since she was fifteen, was ten miles away. And Nikki, also married with two kids, lived not much farther in Chingford where she had her own beauty salon, Faces. All three of the Slater kids went home every other Sunday for a family lunch and treated one another’s houses and lives as an extension of their own.
They were all proud of Ben’s success, if a little bewildered by the scale of it. But the Slater parents were every bit as impressed with Nikki’s salon as they were with his multibillion-dollar fund. As a result, Ben’s feet had remained firmly on the ground, and he’d never been allowed to let either the pressure or the adulation go to his head.
After fifteen infuriating minutes at a complete standstill, the cars in front of him finally started to move, and soon the high-rises of Canon Street began looming into view through the chill December mist. Turning left onto King William Street, he swung the Mini at breakneck speed onto the parking ramp and down into the subterranean gloom of the Stellar Inc. garage.
“Morning, Mr. Slater.” Jerry, the parking attendant, was chirpy as ever. “You’re later than usual. Big night, was it?” He winked knowingly.
“I wish,” said Ben, with feeling, rubbing his aching head. Annoyingly, having told Lucas he wasn’t interested, he’d been plagued by erotic dreams last night about the Brazilian girl. “Are the Daiwa guys here yet?”
This morning’s meeting was with some Japanese institutional investors. If there was one group of people you really did not want to be late for, it was the Japanese.
“’Fraid so,” said Jerry. “They got here about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Bollocks.”
Not bothering to wait for the elevator, Ben bounded up the steps two at a time, picking up his morning bundle of press clippings from the front desk without breaking stride. He’d just closed the door to his office and was hastily putting on one of the silk ties he kept in his desk drawer while simultaneously hunting for some aspirin when his phone went off.
Seeing “mum” flashing insistently, he hit “busy” and stuck his head around the door of his PA’s office.
“Morning, Tam. Are they in the conference room?”
“They are.” Tammy, his utterly devoted secretary of the past three years and a fellow Essex native, flashed him a smile. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Thanks,” said Ben. “I know.”
“I gave them tea and biscuits five minutes ago,” said Tammy. “But your mum’s on line one and I think you’d better talk to her before you go in there. You forgot your nan’s birthday, apparently.” She raised a disapproving eyebrow. “She’s not happy about it.”
Ben groaned. That was all he needed. Jabbing the flashing red button on Tammy’s phone, he reluctantly picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Mum.”
Tammy giggled as he held the phone away from his ear, shielding himself from the rising maternal decibel level. When Mrs. Slater lost her rag, she really lost it.
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry,” he pleaded, once he could get a word in edgewise. “Yes, she does deserve better at ninety-one.
I’ll make it up to her, honest. I’ll come over there tonight, drop her off her present myself, how’s that? No…yes, I do care, Mum, I’m just late for a meeting. Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later, yeah?”
Handing Tammy the phone, he dashed off down the corridor, clutching his aching head and still struggling to straighten the knot on his tie. He looked more like a schoolboy late for class than the CEO of one of the biggest funds in Europe.
What a bloody awful start to the day.
Pushing open the double doors of the conference room, he wondered briefly whether Lucas was feeling as rough and hungover as he was. If there were any justice in this world, he ought to be.
In fact, at that precise moment, Lucas was feeling more than a little pleased with himself.
Though he, too, was late for work, he reckoned that even Julia would probably cut him a little slack today. Slicing his way through the traffic on Piccadilly on his beloved Ducati racing bike like a hot knife through butter, he allowed memories of his epic lovemaking session with the Brazilian girl to drift back to him, interspersed with flashbacks from last night’s triumphant party.
His gamble had really paid off. Even the Tory leader’s wife, a famously sour-faced killjoy, had weaved over to him at the end of the night to say how much she’d enjoyed herself. There was bound to be a big write-up in the Standard’s society pages tonight, which would hopefully start a trickle-down effect of positive press for the Cadogan. Anton couldn’t fail to be impressed. Parking his bike in one of the public stands opposite the hotel—to his fury, he had been denied a parking space in the Cadogan’s courtyard, where Julia’s mint-green Porsche was already glinting smugly in the sunshine—he sauntered into the lobby, grinning from ear to ear.
“What time do you call this?”
Derek, the flamingly gay head receptionist, fancied Lucas madly and liked to demonstrate his devotion through confrontational flirting. Happily, this was a game that Lucas also enjoyed playing.
“Shut it, Shirley,” he said, with a wink that reduced Derek to jelly. “I think I earned my extra hour in bed.”
“That’s as may be,” said Derek, recovering his composure. “But you’ll wish you’d set your alarm clock when I tell you who you missed this morning.”
“Who?” Lucas, rifling through his mail, was only half listening.
“Only Anton the Almighty,” said Derek archly. Instantly Lucas looked up. “Tisch? He was here?”
Derek nodded. “Holed up with Julia for almost forty minutes,” he said. “And when they came out of her office, I heard him tell her…hmm, no, I’m not sure I should tell you. I wouldn’t want to ruin your morning.”
“Spill it, sweetheart,” said Lucas, “before I get behind that desk and beat it out of you.”
Derek flushed with pleasure. But when he spoke again, he looked serious.
“Well,” he said, “I heard Anton tell Julia she’d done an amazing job with the party and the whole Moulin Rouge thing. And she just said, ‘Thank you,’ that she’d decided it was time to revitalize our stuffy, conservative image. She never even mentioned your name.”
“Coño,” Lucas murmured under his breath. The bitch knew damn well he’d probably be late this morning and had deliberately arranged the meeting with Anton without him. How dare she take the credit for his idea and hard work? How dare she?
“Where is she?” he asked murderously.
“Still in her office, I think,” said Derek. “Don’t go doing anything silly now, Lucas,” he added, as Lucas stormed down the corridor. But it was too late for that.
“You fucking liar!” Bursting into the manager’s office like a comet of fury, he slammed the door behind him.
“Good morning, Lucas,” said Julia calmly, not looking up from her PC screen. “Nice of you to join us at last.”
“You told Anton the party was your idea,” he yelled.
Slowly and deliberately, she right-clicked her mouse, minimizing the spreadsheet she was looking at, and sat back in her chair, looking at him.
“I did no such thing,” she said. “Anton had heard good reports and came by to congratulate us. I merely thanked him and said that I was as pleased with how things had gone as he was.”
“Bullshit!” Lucas exploded. “You took the credit for my party.”
“It wasn’t your party,” said Julia acidly. “The entire hot
el worked their asses off to make last night the success it was. As I remember, you couldn’t even be bothered to show up until a couple of hours before kickoff. It was a team effort.”
Lucas looked so furious she half expected to see steam coming out of his ears. Enjoying herself, she threw fuel on the flames by adding patronizingly: “There’s no I in team, you know, Lucas. You’d do well to remember that if you want to succeed in the hotel business.”
“Yeah, well there’s an I in bitch,” he said, throwing the last remnants of professional caution to the wind. “I’m going over to Tisch’s office right now, and I’m going to tell him exactly what a lying piece of work you are. You had nothing to do with that party and you know it.”
“On the contrary,” said Julia. “I’m the manager. I had everything to do with it.”
“You were trying to talk me out of it till the last second!” Lucas spluttered. “I’m going to make sure Anton knows it.”
“Be my guest,” she said, with a maddeningly nonchalant shrug. “You’ll only end up looking like more of a spoiled child than you do already. Oh, and that little tirade of yours?” She glanced up to the corner above the window, where a tiny security camera was swiveling ominously. When the hell had she had that installed? “It’s all on tape. I’m sure Mr. Tisch will find your professional conduct gripping viewing when I bike it over to him later. Close the door on your way out, would you please?”
Cursing both Julia and himself, for apparently playing right into her hands, he hurried out of her office, through the lobby, and back into the crisp December air, crossing the road to where his bike was parked. Just as he was reaching for his helmet, his cell rang. “Ruiz,” he barked.
“Ah, Mr. Roooo-eeeez. I’ve pinned you down at laaaarst.”
The nasal, droning voice of his bank manager felt like lead pouring into Lucas’s heart. That was all he needed.
“Hello, Mr. Chorley.” He tried to sound upbeat. “Listen, I know I owe you a call. But I’m right in the middle of something at the moment. Do you think I could call you back?”
“You owe us a lot more than a call, Mr. Roooo-eeez,” said the manager darkly. “Are you aware of your last month’s overdraft charges?”
“Er, yes, yes, I am,” blustered Lucas.
“Because you’re now seven thousand pounds over your authorized limit,” whined the man from Natwest. “I’m afraid you’ve left me with no choice but to put a temporary freeze on your accounts.”
Lucas’s heart tightened. He hadn’t realized that things had gotten quite that bad. Then again, he had so many unopened bank statements and angry overdue bills piled up on the floor of his apartment, it was starting to look like a recycling facility.
“I’m sure there’s no need for that,” he said, battling to keep the fear out of his voice. “I can raise seven thousand pounds pretty easily.” Running a hand over the gleaming body of his beloved Ducati, he realized with a pang that he’d have to sell her. “It’s more of a cash flow problem than anything else.”
“I hope so, Mr. Rooo-eeez, for your sake.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded unconvinced. “Nevertheless, I’m freezing your accounts until the funds arrive.”
Deciding it was useless to try to negotiate further, Lucas hung up, angrily ramming his phone back into his inside jacket pocket.
“Fucking jobsworth,” he muttered darkly. But he could only deal with one problem at a time. Pulling on his helmet and straddling the powerful bike—God, he’d miss her; what a tragedy she had to go—he started the engine. If he didn’t get to Anton before Julia did, his standing with the boss would definitely take a serious nosedive. The hideous thought struck him that he might even lose his job. Please, God, no. Then old misery-guts Chorley really would have his nuts in a vise.
Tearing along the Embankment at breakneck speed, the roar of his engine audible from the south bank, he arrived at Tisch’s offices within ten minutes. Leaving his bike illegally parked out front, he darted inside.
“I need to see Anton…Mr. Tisch,” he panted. “It’s urgent.” His old enemy the receptionist smiled maliciously. “Tough luck,” she said. “He’s not here.”
Lucas frowned. “Well where is he?”
At first the girl said nothing. But Lucas shot her a look so threatening, she eventually capitulated.
“He’s on his way to City Airport,” she pouted. “He’s flying to Geneva this morning. You won’t catch him,” she yelled after Lucas’s disappearing back as he raced outside. But the electric doors were already closing, and he didn’t hear her.
When he arrived at City it took all his powers of persuasion to get security to allow him onto the airfield where Tisch’s private jet was parked. But finally, after flashing his Cadogan ID, his passport, and his best, most winning smile to the girl on the desk, he was ushered through.
Anton, apparently, was already on board while the technicians made some final checks to the plane.
“Where d’you think you’re going?”
The burly bodyguard at the foot of the stairs leading up into the cabin barred Lucas’s way.
“My name is Lucas Ruiz. I need to talk to Mr. Tisch before he leaves. It’s urgent.”
“I daresay it is,” said the heavy. “But I don’t care if your name’s Jesus fucking Christ. You’re not going aboard and that’s that.”
“If you’d just let him know I’m here,” said Lucas, nodding toward the walkie-talkie on the man’s belt, “I’m sure he’ll agree to see me.”
“Read my lips,” said the guard. “Piss. Off.”
It wasn’t perhaps the wisest of moves, but desperate times called for desperate measures and, catching him by surprise, Lucas landed a swift uppercut right under the man’s jaw. Like most hired muscle, he was so unused to being challenged he seemed completely unprepared for it, staggering backward uselessly and giving Lucas a crucial few seconds in which to land two more punches followed by a sharp knee to the groin. Leaving the unfortunate guard writhing on the tarmac, Lucas straightened his tie, smoothed down his collar, and darted up the steps and into the cabin.
Inside, Anton was sitting on a couch in his reading glasses with a sea of papers spread out in front of him. He looked first surprised and then annoyed to see Lucas.
“What the hell?” he spluttered. “Who let you on board?”
“Your security was kind enough to let me pass,” said Lucas, his voice drowning out the groans from outside. “I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Tisch. I know you must be busy.”
“I am,” said Anton coolly. “Very.”
Just then the pilot opened the door to the cabin. Ignoring Lucas, he addressed himself directly to his boss.
“We’re ready to go, sir. Shall I close the doors?”
“Yes.” Anton turned to Lucas. “If you want to talk, Mr. Ruiz, I suggest you strap yourself in.”
Taking a seat, Lucas did as he was told. Looking out the window as they taxied toward the runway, he could see the security guard on his feet now, still bent double with pain, talking frantically into his walkie-talkie. Too late now, asshole.
Moments later they were airborne. The plane gave a series of little shudders as they climbed through the cloud cover before settling into a steady purr as they achieved altitude.
“So.” Anton was the first to speak. “What’s all this about? It had better be good, Lucas. I don’t appreciate having my time wasted.”
Lucas felt his stomach churning with nerves. All the Mission: Impossible stuff had kept his adrenaline pumping. But now that he was actually here, face-to-face with Anton, he had no idea how to begin. Julia’s words about him looking like a spoiled child were ringing in his ears. But it was too late to turn back now.
“It’s about last night,” he began. And he proceeded to explain not only the battles he’d had with Julia over the Christmas party but the whole history of hostility and resentment between them, and their opposing views about the right direction for the Cadogan.
“I understand that
she’s the manager. And that she has more experience than I do. But I know I’m right about this,” he said, winding up his long, impassioned speech. “We have to keep evolving to stay ahead of the competition. That’s what last night was all about. And that was my vision. Not hers.”
Anton, who’d kept his arms crossed and his head down while Lucas was talking, now looked up at him. He wasn’t remotely interested in the micropolitical struggles at the Cadogan. But he was interested in Lucas. It hadn’t escaped his notice what a name the boy had made for himself since coming to London, not easy for a broke outsider with no contacts, no title, and nothing but his good looks and confidence to recommend him. Anton himself had been trying for years to gain acceptance to the British establishment, but Lucas seemed to pick up friends in high places with the same ease and inevitability that other newly arrived foreigners picked up a cold. He clearly had a natural genius for PR, which was a very valuable asset in the hotel business and was being wasted at the Cadogan. Despite his poker face, Anton had in fact been delighted by the buzz generated by last night’s party. Something about Lucas’s direct, fiery gaze convinced him that the kid was telling the truth, that it really had been his idea all along.
That Julia had been less than honest earlier didn’t surprise him. To be fair, he’d have done the same thing had he been in her shoes. She was sick to death of the battles with her undermanager, and Anton didn’t blame her. Though Lucas didn’t know it, she’d already been on the phone to him this morning, complaining that Lucas’s insubordination had now gone beyond all appropriate professional boundaries and that she had evidence of this on tape. She wanted him fired.
If it had been anyone else, Anton wouldn’t have hesitated. But Lucas’s talent for self-promotion was too good to be jettisoned over some petty squabble. And no one could deny the boy had balls.
“Have you ever heard of a hotel called Palmers?” he asked him. Lucas looked bemused. This was a bit of a non sequitur.
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