“Absolutely,” he said, once Sian had finished. “We can run it this Sunday. How much did you say you wanted again?”
Sian repeated the figure.
“Fine.”
He didn’t hesitate, and she instantly regretted not having asked for more.
“But if you shop it around to the Mail on Sunday behind my back, I’ll tear you limb from limb.”
“I won’t,” said Sian, hanging up.
Taking another sip of her champagne, she closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to relax. There was no need to tell Lucas or the others about her little backup deal. But now, whatever happened tomorrow night—whether Lucas and Honor pulled off their ambush of the Herrick party or not—Sian would have her story. While most of America was still asleep and the party was drawing to a close, the first copies of the News of the World would be hitting newsagents and corner shops all across England.
She might not ever be Mrs. Ben Slater. But she was damn well going to be the next Lois Lane.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ANTON SAT CONTENTEDLY in the back of his limousine the next morning with Mitzi drooling loyally by his side, watching the flat Long Island scenery roll by. Tonight was going to be one of the greatest nights of his life, public affirmation of the success he’d worked so long and hard to achieve.
All he needed for his happiness to be complete was for his knighthood to finally come through. But his man in the ministry had assured him he needn’t worry on that score. He was a shoo-in for the next honors list, after the obscenely large loan check he’d written to the government last month. The first time he heard himself addressed as Sir Anton would truly be a day to remember. But tonight’s party at the Herrick would be a good start—a taste of the recognition to come.
He was also excited about seeing Petra again. Saskia had served a useful purpose. She’d kept Petra on her toes and done an A job whipping up press coverage for the party. But sexually he was already tiring of her, like a little boy gorged on too-rich birthday cake. He longed for Petra’s skinny, unforgiving body and the icy, imperious way she looked at him when they made love. Knowing that she was furious about the way he’d foisted Saskia on her made the prospect of their reunion all the sweeter. Few things in life gave him more pleasure than fucking an angry, resentful Petra into submission, bending her to his will. Making love to Saskia was like diving into a sea of marshmallow. With Petra, it was more like taming a wildcat.
He was also relishing the prospect of the This Is Your Life–style presentation that Saskia had planned for this evening. It was being billed as a surprise, so he’d have to look suitably humble in front of the press and VIPs and feign embarrassment.
But in reality he’d overseen every detail of the footage, and even gone so far as to run the twelve-minute film past his civil servant friend to make sure it was on message from a knighthood point of view. He’d been assured he came across as powerful but compassionate—“a magnanimous magnate,” as the ministry man had put it, a turn of phrase Anton liked so much that he’d suggested it to Saskia as a title for the film.
He wondered what Lucas would make of it.
He’d extended invitations to both Lucas and Honor, largely so that none of the press could accuse him of grudge bearing, but was amazed when Saskia told him that Lucas had accepted. Surely the boy must have deduced by now that he and Connor were in cahoots and that he was both the brains and the bank behind the court case? Of course, it was possible his intention was to cause a scene, to try to upstage the event by airing his grievances among Anton’s famous guests. But if he did, it would be his funeral. No one would be interested in the drunken ramblings of a washed-up conspiracy theorist like Ruiz. Not when they had the party of the century waiting to be enjoyed.
Honor, more predictably, had declined to attend, citing pressure of work. The new Palmers was opening later this year, and she was busy putting the final touches to it—much good may it do her. Anyone with even the most rudimentary business sense would have seen it was ludicrous to try to open a niche boutique next door to the most successful hotel in the world. Anton had built up his Tischen empire by building close to big-name hotels, but they were always fading giants, never rising stars like the Palmers. Plus, he had unlimited funds with which to force his rivals out of the market. By all accounts, these days Honor Palmer could barely afford to buy a sandwich and, according to Petra, had last week been spotted varnishing Palmers’ fences herself, by hand. Talk about David and Goliath!
Ruffling the fur on Mitzi’s head, Anton closed his eyes contentedly and turned his thoughts back to Petra. Why waste precious thinking time on Honor, or Lucas? As far as he was concerned, they were both yesterday’s news.
While Anton savored his impending hour of glory, Lucas was in Honor’s old cottage, frantically delving under cushions and piles of paper for his car keys.
He was supposed to be picking Sian up from the airport this morning, but after a late night with Honor working on the master plan for tonight, he’d overslept and was now hopelessly late.
“Shit.” He sent another two groaning accordion files flying across the room. “Honor!” Sticking his head into the narrow stairwell that led up to the cottage’s lone bedroom, he shouted into the void. “Have you seen my keys? I can’t find them anywhere and I have to go. Now!”
A few moments later, a sleep-addled Honor appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. In a pair of oversize men’s pajamas—whose were those? Lucas wondered jealously—and with her cheeks still creased from the bedsheets, she looked adorable. All she needed was a teddy clasped to her chest and a Linus blanket trailing on the floor to complete the picture.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
“Ten,” said Lucas testily. He was tense as hell about this evening, and his brief night spent on the cottage’s hard sofa had done little to improve his mood. “I’m seriously fucking late, and this place is a pigsty. No wonder I can’t find anything.”
“Hey,” said Honor, getting annoyed herself, “if you lost your keys, that’s your fault, not mine. As for the pigsty, I didn’t see you in a rush to clean up after yourself last night.”
It had been a long night and they were both strung out. With another two months to run on her lease, Honor had held on to the cottage as a sort of overspill office, a place to store the mountains of as-yet-unfiled paperwork relating to the new Palmers building works.
Since Lucas’s unscheduled arrival, it had morphed into the nerve center for Operation Anton and served as his temporary base while he was in town. Normally he would have slept in the bed, and Honor would have gone home to her suite at Palmers. But it was so late when they’d finished last night, there was no point in her going home. In an uncharacteristic display of chivalry, Lucas had offered to take the tiny couch.
He regretted it now. He hadn’t slept a wink. Quite apart from the logistics of trying to get comfortable on a piece of furniture designed by a sadist for a midget, just knowing that Honor was upstairs, probably naked, in his bed, kept him tossing and turning through the small hours like a prisoner on the rack. The combination of sleep deprivation, sexual frustration, and stress about what lay ahead of them—what if they blew it and got thrown out, or worse, arrested?—conspired to make him moodier than a teenage girl in the throes of PMS.
“Your keys are on the counter,” said Honor, coming wearily down the stairs. “I can see them from here.”
Snatching them up with an irritated frown, Lucas thrust them into the back pocket of his jeans.
Grabbing a bagel from the bread bin on his way out, he left, slamming the cottage door behind him so hard that the sea of papers fluttered up into the air like windblown leaves.
Honor surveyed the mess he’d left behind.
“A simple thanks would have been nice,” she mumbled, crossly. But she still hoped he’d drive safely on his way to Kennedy. He could be awfully reckless when he was stressed out, and on two hours’ sleep those one-lane roads out of town could
be lethal.
When Lucas saw Sian struggling through customs with two battered suitcases and a groaning briefcase, she looked distinctly travel-worn. Notwithstanding their kiss in London, he’d never been the biggest fan of her looks, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen her looking quite so preternaturally pale as she did now. Her dark hair was greasy and hung long and lank to her shoulders. As for the clothes she was wearing—combat shorts, tatty sneakers, and a faded orange T-shirt covered in coffee stains—they were only a small step above bag lady.
“You look tired,” was all he said, relieving her of both suitcases. Uncharacteristically, she let him take them without a fuss. Her shoulders were killing her, and she was too drained to take a feminist stand about it today.
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
“Yeah, well, I had to, didn’t I?” said Sian grudgingly. “You made it pretty clear you wouldn’t wait around for me to get the rest of the evidence together. It had to be this weekend or never. I haven’t slept in two weeks.”
“Me neither,” said Lucas. “Jesus.” He frowned at the heavy bags in each hand. “What the hell did you pack in here? Lead?”
They’d reached the elevator, and he put down both cases while he pressed the call button.
“No.” Sian grinned triumphantly. “Tapes.”
“Tapes? What tapes?” The lift arrived and they stepped inside.
Sian looked at him witheringly. “Anton’s high school reunion. Jeez, what do you mean what tapes? It’s the sexual stuff, you idiot. Your hors d’oeuvres for the party tonight, before we pull out our big guns.”
“You do have the big guns, though?” said Lucas nervously.
“Relax,” said Sian. “I got it all. This stuff is just interviews with some of the girls from his homes who went on the game. All on the record, mind you. Sixteen hours of audio, five and half of visuals. You would not believe some of the stories. It goes way beyond what we thought.”
“We’re gonna have ten minutes up on that podium tonight, total,” grumbled Lucas. “Maybe less. Honor and I have it timed to the last second. What are we supposed to do with five hours of footage?”
“Hey, you wanted pictures, remember?” said Sian. “Don’t fucking whine when I bring them to you.”
Why was he being so negative? He ought to be ripping her arm off. This stuff was white-hot. It would certainly focus people’s attention, so by the time they got to tonight’s real shock they’d have a captive audience.
The elevator doors swooshed open at the fourth floor. Lucas walked over to the car and began loading the bags silently into the trunk.
He knew he was being churlish. If Sian had brought another nail to hammer into Anton’s coffin, that was great news, and the American press were bound to salivate more over a sex scandal than any other sort of wrongdoing. This was a nation that had impeached their own president over a blow job, for God’s sake. But part of him resented the fact that it was Sian’s work, her research, that was ultimately going to bring Anton down. In his mind, tonight was the culmination of his revenge, his private, personal battle against the man who’d set out to ruin him.
“We’ve got the whole afternoon,” said Sian, climbing into the passenger seat beside him. “We can edit it.”
“I suppose,” he grunted. “We’re cutting it a bit close, though, don’t you think?”
Sian struggled to keep a lid on her anger. She’d flown halfway across the world to get these tapes and the rest of her evidence here on time. A little pat on the back might have been nice.
“You don’t have to worry,” she said bitterly. “I’ll do all the editing. I already know where the money shots are.”
“As it were,” said Lucas, raising an eyebrow.
Despite himself, a smile had started to creep across his features. Despite herself, Sian returned it.
“I spoke to Ben earlier, by the way,” said Lucas, changing the subject. “He wished us all luck.”
“I wish he was here,” said Sian, her tiredness making her drop her guard of indifference.
To her amazement, Lucas stretched out an arm and wrapped it around her shoulder in sympathy.
“I know you do, sweetheart,” he said. “So do I.”
It wasn’t until they’d pulled out of the airport and onto the expressway that Sian remembered the other thing she had meant to tell him.
“Oh!” she said suddenly. “There’s something else. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you before.”
“What’s that?” asked Lucas, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“The Palmers fire,” said Sian. “You know, you asked me to check it out?”
Lucas looked up. She had his attention now.
“Well I did,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure I know who started it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
PETRA ADJUSTED THE vintage Dior brooch at her décolletage and admired her reflection for one final time in the mirror. The gown she had chosen for tonight, a black Narciso Rodriguez column dress, was elegant rather than sexy, a deliberate statement designed to contrast with Saskia’s vulgar, neon-pink Dolce & Gabbana minidress. Honestly, if that woman got any tackier you could use her as human flypaper.
Anyway, it worked. Petra’s white-blonde bob and flawless milky skin looked even more striking against the severe black taffeta. The overall effect was positively regal, appropriate given that tonight she intended to show Saskia up in front of Anton and their many illustrious guests as the cheap pretender to her throne she really was.
Outside, the party was beginning to warm up. Twisting her office blinds a fraction, she could see the swelling crowd, and in the midst of them, Anton, glad-handing the media and more important corporate guests. Only two hours ago, he’d been in her office, arguing furiously with her about Saskia. She was still livid that he’d had that fat slug issue invitations to Lucas and Honor behind her back, and had let him know her views on the subject in no uncertain terms.
Anton always got turned on by confrontation. But after this afternoon’s fight he’d been positively foaming at the mouth, so desperate was he to fuck her. For once, Petra had resisted and decided to make him wait. Submission in the bedroom was all very well, but after all the shit he’d pulled with Saskia, he needed to be taught a lesson. By the time he’d stormed out of her office, with a hard-on the size of Canada bulging visibly in his suit pants, he was angrier than she’d ever seen him. But she wasn’t worried. Later tonight, once the party was over, he could have what he wanted. And by then he’d want it so badly he’d be prepared to make ample recompense. Saskia’s remaining hours in his employ were now officially numbered.
She opened the blinds a little farther. Only a few big-ticket names had turned up so far: Teri Hatcher was here with her new boy-toy, and Oprah and Stedman were deep in conversation with the head of Random House at the entrance to the Moroccan marquee, sipping the Dom Perignon that Petra had insisted on. (Saskia had wanted the irredeemably tacky Cristal, of course.)
Petra was quite relaxed about the paucity of celebrities. Stars always liked to make an entrance, and that meant turning up late. But she could tell Anton was fretting. In yet another of her craven bids for his affection, Saskia had put together a cringe-making mini biopic, A Magnanimous Magnate, which was scheduled to run at ten thirty. In his typical German way, Anton was obsessed about the thing starting on time, but he also wanted as many VIPs as possible to be there to see it.
Gliding back outside to join him—if she left his side for too long, Saskia would swoop in to try to play hostess, and she wasn’t having any of that—Petra drew him to one side for a pep talk.
“You must try to relax,” she whispered in his ear. “The film is for the media, not the guests. If you run around looking antsy and like you’re not having a good time, believe me, so will everyone else.”
“I’d be a lot more relaxed if you’d opened your fucking legs two hours ago,” he hissed back.
Surreptitiously she allowed the back of
her hand to brush against his crotch. “Temper, temper,” she said. “Good things come to those who wait. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”
Meanwhile, back in the kitchens, Sian was battling with her own nerves. Honor had done a meticulous job stage-managing the plan for tonight. With the help of some of the disaffected Herrick staff, she’d managed to wangle a job for Sian as a temporary waitress and get access to the detailed timing of the night’s festivities. All Sian had to do was follow instructions. But as everything was based around the timings Honor had been given, they could only pray that Petra hadn’t had a last-minute change of mind and reshuffled something. This was the part that worried Sian.
“We’ll be OK,” Lucas had tried to reassure her this afternoon, while simultaneously mocking the hell out of her French maid’s outfit. “Petra’s a compulsive organizer, and Anton’s even worse. Trust me, they don’t do spontaneous. They’ll stick to the schedule.”
Sian prayed he was right. Yanking down her much-too-short skirt—she was sure Lucas had had a hand in ordering her uniform, which had clearly been intended for a child or one of those miniature Filipino women, not a strapping Irish Jersey girl like her—she picked up a tray of canapés and ventured out into the grounds.
But as soon as she turned into the Japanese garden, she caught her breath and dived for cover behind the nearest shrub. There, right in front of her, was Lola’s brother, Nick. He had his arm around the waist of a vacuous brunette, a twig-like giantess who could only have been a model, and his whiny, insistent, arrogant voice cut through the general buzz of conversation around him like a chainsaw.
“So you see, I’m all on my lonesome,” he was saying. “My folks have officially become East Hampton’s first agoraphobics. And my sister’s too caught up with Super-yid to care about anything else. They’re probably at home making matzo balls together.”
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