The Secret Heiress

by Judith Gould

  He laughed softly. “A lot of my work is probably not what you’d expect. I do spend time indoors. I clean paintings and analyze pigments and fill in the gaps where paint is missing. That kind of thing. But most of my time is spent welding and sanding and polishing. There’s a lot of heavy lifting and dirty work with acetylene torches and chemicals.”

  A small group of women began circling the room, pointing at the paintings and speaking in self-important voices.

  “That’s interesting,” Ariadne said as she watched the women discuss a provocative Paul Cadmus canvas. “I never gave much thought to that kind of work before.”

  “Well, why should you? You’re in business. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself. Where’re you from?”

  “Would you like the short version or the long?” she asked.

  “The long for sure,” he replied, grinning.

  “I was born in Greece and lived there awhile,” Ariadne said, “but I grew up in Connecticut.”

  “Wow, Greece,” he responded. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “I only remember snippets,” she said.

  “Your parents moved to the States?”

  Ariadne shook her head. “I lived with foster parents in Greece, then was brought to live with different foster parents here.”

  “That’s unusual,” he said. “Where in Connecticut?”

  “A tiny place I’m sure you’ve never heard of,” Ariadne said. “Roxbury.”

  “You’re right,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “Oh . . . here and there,” he replied—evasively, she thought. When he saw the puzzled expression on her face, he went on. “What I mean is, I’ve traveled quite a bit, but I grew up here in Massachusetts.”

  “Did your family move around a lot?”

  “Not really, but work took me away.”

  “Oh? What kind of work?”

  “Government.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? she wondered, but before she could satisfy her curiosity, he grinned and said, “You’ve turned the tables on me. I was trying to find out about you.”

  A lady with salt-and-pepper hair gelled into spikes strolled past them, her long earrings jangling as she passed. She did a very quick sweep around the room and left as if there was nothing of interest to her.

  After she was gone, Ariadne shrugged and said, “There’s not much to know.”

  “That can’t be true,” he said, shifting on the bench slightly and gazing into her eyes.

  He had moved only a mere three or four inches closer to Ariadne, but she felt a violation of personal space. She didn’t move, however. She felt oddly at ease with this man—Matt, she reminded herself—but at the same time, he stirred feelings in her that were unfamiliar and unsettling. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she finally replied. “I’m just a simple girl from Connecticut.”

  “How do you like Williamstown?” he asked, apparently trying to make her feel comfortable.

  “I like it. It’s fun after being out in the sticks for so long. After Roxbury and boarding school, Williamstown seems almost like a city to me, and there’re a lot of really nice people.”

  “I bet you’ve learned a lot,” he said.

  “I’ve still got a lot to learn,” she said with a laugh. “I haven’t had much exposure to the world. Most of the girls I went to school with were much more experienced and sophisticated than I am. They came from families with money, and they’d traveled and had great clothes and the latest everything.”

  “So you didn’t come from a lot of money but went to a fancy boarding school?”

  Ariadne nodded. “I was on a scholarship. I am here, too. My parents are comfortable enough, but didn’t have enough money. Dad’s a teacher, and my mom stayed at home.”

  “What does he teach?”

  “Math and science. I guess that’s what got me interested in business. He was always pushing me number-wise, if you know what I mean.”

  Matt nodded.

  “But I think I took to math naturally,” she added. “I guess it seemed like something I could control, even if I couldn’t control anything else around me. I . . .” She paused and looked at him. “I’m rattling on like an idiot, aren’t I? You must think—”

  Matt touched her shoulder. “I think you’re great.”

  Ariadne glimpsed the hand on her shoulder. It was long but wide and looked very powerful. His expression was one of intense interest. “You don’t even really know me,” she said in a low voice.

  “No, but I’d like to get to know you better,” Matt replied.

  And I would like to get to know you better, too, Ariadne thought but refrained from saying. She found that she was very attracted to him—there was no mistaking that—but she didn’t want to let him think she was desperate, either. “Why?” she asked.

  “You’re being disingenuous,” he said. “You know very well.”

  “Maybe,” she said teasingly.

  They heard the loud thwack of sneakers on the floor, then an even louder squeak as someone came to an abrupt halt near the bench. Turning in unison with Matt to look at the intruder, Ariadne felt her face burn with embarrassment.

  “Kurt,” she said, quickly putting on a smile.

  He shifted his gaze to Matt, looking at him with undisguised displeasure. He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something particularly foul before looking back at Ariadne. “We’re supposed to go to the movies, remember?” Long, muscular arms akimbo, his feet spread in a wide stance, Kurt looked every inch the threatening jock bully.

  “Of course I remember,” she replied, rising to her feet. “I just didn’t realize what time it is.”

  “You were supposed to meet me out front five minutes ago,” Kurt accused.

  “I’m sorry,” Ariadne said. She looked down at Matt. “It was nice to talk to you.”

  He nodded, a tight smile on his lips. “You, too,” he replied.

  “See you later.”

  Kurt sized up Matt again, then took Ariadne’s hand in his, and they walked out of the room.

  Matt watched them, Kurt’s sneakers thwacking the floor as before. He was in sweats and a jacket, carrying a gym bag, and his blond hair was still damp from the shower. “Who’s the . . . ?” Matt heard him begin before his voice faded as they went through the arched doorway.

  What’s she doing with a jerk like him? he wondered. She deserves better than that. He sat lost in thought for a few moments, then reconsidered. The guy was good-looking. No doubt about that. He was probably very smart, or he wouldn’t have gotten into Williams. He was obviously an athlete of some kind. Still, he decided before getting up to leave, the guy’s an asshole, and Ariadne can do a lot better for herself.

  Chapter Three

  The stone castle crowned a rocky outcrop in Ayrshire, a massive gray testament to man’s ability to conquer savage nature. It had endured for centuries both inclement weather and the many onslaughts of rival clansmen, as well as the repeated efforts by generations of owners to put their personal stamp on it. As old as it was, the ancient structure had been thoroughly updated by the present laird, who lived in a much more recent mansion on the estate. The castle was now the luxurious site of important international meetings, offering fishing and hunting in addition to the amenities necessary for conducting high-level business on its thousands of acres.

  In a large conference room four senior executives of Papadaki Private Holdings Limited sat in leather-upholstered chairs around a long oak table. The walls that surrounded them were hung with the deer heads and antlers ubiquitous in such castles, interspersed with tapestries and hunting paintings. On the table were two large silver trays. On one of them several bottles of water, one sparkling, had been placed, along with an ice bucket and tongs, and crystal goblets. The other tray held a silver pot of fresh-brewed coffee, a bowl with sugar, and a creamer.

  The presence of the four executives at the castle was unknown
to anyone else within the company. Each of them had scheduled a trip elsewhere, then made a detour to this remote location, so as to meet in complete privacy. All four had been handpicked for their positions by Nikos Papadaki, their deceased leader. He had been a cynical man who trusted no one, but he had left these four individuals in charge.

  Adrian Single sat at the head of the table, facing the three others. Adrian had been Nikos Papadaki’s most trusted and highly valued executive. He was CEO and represented the North and South American holdings of PPHL. His handsome appearance often led opponents to underestimate his steely-minded negotiating abilities.

  On his left sat Yves Carre, in charge of holdings in Africa, Western Europe, and Australia. French by birth, he spoke several languages. Tall, thin, and silver-haired, he was quiet, polite, and capable of great charm. He had an air about him of the continental art dealer or diplomat, but he could be as ruthless in the boardroom as any corporate-takeover shark.

  Seated to Adrian’s right were the two others. Angelo Coveri was now sixty-six years old and white-haired, his once-muscular frame bulked out with fat. He gave the appearance of a pugnacious dog, and he could be when the need arose. He was in charge of operations in Eastern Europe, including Russia and the various countries that had once comprised the former Soviet Union, and Asia.

  Next to Coveri sat the sole woman, Cynthia Rosebury, known universally as Sugar. She was a formidable woman of middle age, who had broken the glass ceiling to become the chief financial officer of PPHL. She dressed fashionably, though not outrageously, forgoing women’s boring business suits for feminine suits and dresses.

  “Now, we’ve got the same problems in Indonesia that we’ve had in Belarus,” Angelo Coveri was saying. “The steel mills are outdated and dangerous.”

  “Yes, Angelo,” Sugar interjected, “but you have to remember that Nikoletta got them for nothing and the sellers are holding all their old debt. Nikos used to do that. It was one of his favorite tricks.”

  “That’s true,” Adrian pointed out, “but Nikos would never have neglected those mills, Sugar. She’s created a dangerous brew of problems that threaten to tarnish the corporation.”

  “What’s worse,” Coveri said, “is this latest venture of hers.”

  “It’s hair-raising,” Adrian exclaimed.

  “Disposing of toxic waste from Western countries by shipping it to Third World nations,” Coveri said, shaking his head. “It’s horrible. These countries can’t afford to weigh the dangers in taking this waste. I’m telling you, it’s going to be a disaster for us.”

  Yves Carre finally spoke up. “You may well be right, Angelo. There’s a militant ecological group called Mother Earth’s Children,” he said. “They’re singling out PPHL as one of their major targets.”

  “But this new venture is highly lucrative,” Sugar pointed out. “It’s making the company a bundle. I think the girl has some of her father in her, and he was a wily old fox if there ever was one.”

  “You may be right, Sugar,” Adrian said, seeming to agree with her again. He looked off into the distance for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s not so much wily as she is totally unscrupulous.”

  “Don’t you think that’s an exaggeration?” Sugar asked.

  Before Adrian could respond, Angelo Coveri took a sip of water from the crystal goblet on the table, then cleared his throat. “I’m telling you this,” he said, directing his gaze at Sugar. “Old Nikos would never in his life have dealt in toxic waste. That is a fact of which I am certain.”

  Sugar frowned and tapped the tabletop with manicured fingernails. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’m not so sure, Angelo.”

  “Quite frankly,” Yves Carre said, “I’m getting very nervous about the changes since she took over. All you have to do is check out the Internet to get an idea of the image PPHL is projecting. We’re being accused of plundering natural resources. Refusing to modernize facilities and poisoning the environment.” He looked around the table. “It’s only beginning, but you know how word spreads on the Internet. And sooner or later, we’re going to be vilified in the mainstream press because we’re not dealing with any of these issues.”

  “Oh, come on. Do you really believe that?” Sugar asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  Yves nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied. “The way the wind’s blowing, Sugar, it would do us well to start addressing these issues right away. If Nikoletta is as intractable now as she has been in the last two years, then . . .” He gave a Gallic shrug.

  “I think you’re right,” Angelo Coveri said. “Nikoletta, I’m sorry to say, is the root of the problem, and something’s got to be done about her.”

  “We’ve got to discuss the best way of going about approaching Niki with this information,” Adrian said. “I—”

  A cell phone rang, and all four of the executives looked around the table, trying to decipher whose had rung. There was much patting of pockets before Adrian realized it was his.

  “Excuse me,” he said, flipping the phone open. Shifting his chair slightly away from the table, he said, “Hello?”

  “Adrian?”

  Adrian recognized the familiar voice at once. He rose to his feet and retreated to a far corner of the room for privacy. “I’m here,” he said quietly.

  “I’ve been doing as you ordered, but today she caught me.”

  “I see,” he replied.

  “Can you talk?” the man asked. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Somewhat,” Adrian replied, “but never mind. So what happened?”

  “Nothing really. I didn’t blow my cover. I just told her about what I supposedly do. She was so absorbed in it, I wish I did.”

  Adrian did not miss the interest in his caller’s voice. “Well, you make sure you keep a better distance. I don’t want it to happen again.”

  The caller sounded chastened. “Will do.”

  “You’re not to allow this to go any further. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adrian flipped the cell phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket, then returned to the table. “Sorry about that.”

  “Anything serious?” Sugar asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Just an overenthusiastic assistant in New York,” he replied with a smile. “Where were we?”

  After another half hour or so of discussion, Adrian adjourned the meeting, and they left the conference room. As he walked down the long hallway toward his room, Adrian thought, This wild child is going to be the death of me, and she might be the death of the entire company.

  He emitted a sigh. He was growing weary of intervening on Niki’s behalf, fixing up the messes she made. He’d been behind her in the beginning, giving her the benefit of the doubt and the chance to grow with experience. Nikos had groomed her for years to lead the company, after all.

  As Nikos had grown older, he’d never wavered from his belief that Niki must succeed him. In the beginning when Nikos had separated Niki and Ariadne, Adrian had thought that Nikos had lost his mind. He was convinced that Nikos had suffered one of his spells of madness. He thought Nikos would come to his senses and eventually change his mind. But he didn’t. Nikos had always thought Niki was the daughter to be groomed to lead the company. Adrian and Nikos had argued about it many times over the years. Finally, Nikos himself had moved Ariadne to the United States just in case he’d made the wrong decision regarding Niki.

  Adrian heaved another sigh. He had always thought he would eventually be able to talk Nikos into letting Ariadne claim her heritage, but that was not to be. Nikos had died without permitting it. Maybe it’s time to pay a visit to Ariadne and see if she can’t replace her sister, he thought. Of the twin sisters, he no longer had any question which one was the bad seed.

  Chapter Four

  New York City

  The photographer’s studio was in an enormous eighth-floor loft in the Flatiron District, between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas. The dingy turn-of-t
he-century structure didn’t give a hint that some of America’s most compelling images were created within its confines. The loft of Greg Lichtenstein, the much-in-demand fashion photographer, was reached by a dark, creaky freight elevator that could hold twenty-five or thirty people with ease. Its spaciousness did little to dispel its cell-like creepiness, but when its door opened and newcomers stepped from the ancient bobbing car into Greg’s loft, they were swept away by the futuristic atmosphere that greeted them.

  In the spacious entry room thousands of square feet of flooring rescued from bowling alleys that were about to meet the wrecker’s ball had been laid and several coats of polyurethane gave it a high gloss. The high walls and ceiling had all been painted in a photographer’s white, and on them hung an assortment of Greg’s most famous images, most of them published in high-fashion magazines all over the world. The reception room was lined with black leather-upholstered banquettes, where one could wait for an appointment in comfort, leafing through choice magazines placed on the black marble-topped end tables and coffee table. In the center of the room was the receptionist’s desk, an enormous black marble slab on which an orchid sprouted dozens of white blossoms.

  The receptionist complemented the environment, being totally clad in black down to her stiletto-heeled shoes. Even her straight, orange-dyed hair, cut near her shoulders in an even line repeated in the bangs across her forehead, fitted the picture. She commandeered the busy ultramodern BeoCom multiline telephone with as much ease as she handled the keyboard accompanying the large flat-panel computer screen on the desk, even though she had long chocolate-colored fingernails that shone with new varnish.

  When Bianca Coveri rushed into the reception area, she ignored the veneer of glamour. Nor was she surprised to hear the loud hip-hop music playing on the studio’s powerful stereo system. She had been here many times because she ran PPHL’s garment subsidiaries. One of their expensive designer clothing labels was photographed here, and Bianca was frequently on hand to make certain that PPHL got what they wanted—and dearly paid for. Today’s shoot was part of a multimillion-dollar ad blitz, and Bianca wanted to assure herself that every detail was as she wanted it. Today, she also had another reason for being here: she’d taken an interest in one of the models.