Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  “And in exchange for this, Miss Dean, you want . . . ?”

  There was a slight coolness to his tone she resented, and Judy lifted her chin defiantly.

  “One million euros.”

  “One million euros,” Montfort repeated. “What if I think what you have to say isn’t worth that much?”

  “You won’t,” Judy said confidently.

  “And what will you do with that money?”

  Judy decided she wanted Montfort. She didn’t need to think about it too much. She wanted him, ached for him. They were in a hotel room. The way he’d looked at her . . .

  She rested her hand languidly on her collar bone and deliberately undid one button of her dress.

  “I think that’s my business, Mr. Montfort,” she said, and extended her leg, flashing him more than a glimpse of thigh, displaying the very tip of a garter belt.

  His eyes glinted.

  “You are not happy at House Massot, I take it.”

  “It’s a joke of a company,” Judy said. “I’d be happy to come and work for you.”

  She imagined that glorious possibility: a new Pierre, better, more manly, and unmarried. A jolting crowd of sexual images tumbled into her mind. It would be like it was when Pierre first summoned her. Sex in his office. Sex in her office. His touch in the elevator. All day long, aware of her own thighs, her womanhood. Not like now, when she was so cold, so dry. Hugh Montfort would wake her up again.

  “Not Sophie Massot?” he asked.

  Judy said with sudden vigour, “I hate that goddamned bitch.”

  Montfort looked at the slim beige file in her hands, at the exquisite gold leaf brooch she was clutching. He knew she had something, the final piece in his puzzle. He wanted to know it rather badly. The same way he wanted to shove that teasing little dress the rest of the way up her thighs and take her, immediately, perhaps more than once.

  He stood up.

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Dean,” he said with cold courtesy. “But I am not interested.”

  Judy just sat there. “What?”

  Her thigh was exposed; flushing, with anger this time, she quickly hid it.

  “That’s your cue to leave,” Hugh Montfort said.

  Judy stood up; her cheeks were bright red.

  “But you need this to win.”

  “No,” Hugh said. “I don’t. I rather respect Mrs. Massot. And I intend to beat her in a manner that is entirely aboveboard.”

  “Well,” Judy responded sharply. “You saw me, Mr. Montfort. So you’re not as pure as all that.”

  He grinned, inclined his head. “Touché.”

  Judy moved towards him where he stood by the door. Her body was still on fire, and she was sure his was too.

  She stood just a little too close to him, to let him see the swell of her cleavage under the button she’d left undone.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” she murmured.

  He smiled. “Quite sure. And allow me.”

  Montfort reached over and did up the button on her dress. Then he opened the door to his suite.

  “Off you go, Miss Dean,” he said. “Don’t make me call security.”

  Judy started. Then the rage and humiliation started to build in her, making her sweat, making her dizzy. Her throat was too thick to speak, even to curse him. She gathered up her file and stormed out of his room.

  Montfort closed the heavy door behind her, and, as she marched off towards the elevators, she heard him. Chuckling to himself.

  Chapter 25

  “And Sophie Massot?”

  Hugh looked at the journalist with distaste. They were seated in a conference room at the Crillon, and she was the sixth interview he’d given today. A necessary evil: Mayberry’s bid had been announced, and his financial PR firm insisted on using him, personally, to appeal to the shareholders.

  “You’re a star,” Missy Kaufman, the wiry American girl, had told him. “The business pages are so boring. Editors will kill for a chance to spice it up with someone like you. An English gent, a widower, a war hero—”

  Hugh held up his hand. “Nothing about my wife. Or my past.”

  “But it’s so romantic, Hugh—”

  He eyed her coldly. “I said nothing.” His tone was final. “That is to be a condition of giving the interviews. If my business background will help get press, you can use that.”

  Missy sighed. “Can I at least use the Oscars?”

  “Certainly,” he said, thankful the danger had passed.

  But the day had been wearing, nonetheless. Journalist after journalist asking the same questions. This girl, thank God, was the last. Amanda Fife from the FT. She was plump, but hard-looking, and persistent.

  “This is all about the stock price, as far as we’re concerned,” said Hugh.

  “Yes, but wouldn’t you agree that families can’t just treat companies they have a stake in like their private playgrounds?”

  “Of course.”

  “Her husband may have founded the firm, but Sophie Massot has no business background.” Amanda’s lip curled. “She’s been a stay-at-home wife and party hostess.”

  “You’d need to ask her about that.”

  “Since she took over, the stock price has lost a third of its value. And continues to sink.”

  “That’s why we hope shareholders will vote to accept Mayberry’s bid.”

  “Do you think that just because she controls a large stake she should be able to do what she likes with the company?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And she’s fired thousands of staff around the world. Closed one entire division without even looking for a buyer. What do you think of that?”

  He thought it was a very good idea, inspired in fact.

  “I think shareholders will have the chance to voice their anger in three months, by voting for Mayberry.”

  “Of course, you know all about that sort of thing. When you started at Mayberry you had no qualms about firing hundreds of people yourself.”

  “Of course I had qualms, but it had to be done.” Hugh couldn’t take another minute. “And I’m afraid that’s all I have time for, Miss Fife.”

  He stood and offered her his hand.

  “It’s Ms. Fife,” she said, waspishly.

  “Ms. Fife,” he agreed.

  She smiled at him. “Don’t worry. We have to be tough in interviews. But it’ll be a positive piece.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “The shareholders can’t wait to dump Sophie Massot, from what I’m hearing. Spoiled bitch,” she said with contempt. “People have their savings in that company. But she’s too rich to care.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Sure we do. When you sit on your ass for ten years, then come in and destroy something, that’s all we need to know. Well, she’ll be out in three months.” The girl nodded at him. “Good to meet you,” she said and, mercifully, walked out.

  He waited five minutes, enough for her to clear the lobby, and then left the hotel himself. The day was strangely cool, foggy and with a chill in the air, freak weather blowing into the heat of the Parisian summer; Hugh did not mind the cold snap. He wanted to walk and to clear his head.

  Was Sophie Massot a spoiled bitch?

  On paper, everything confirmed it. And yet, he nonetheless thought not. There was that one, surprising encounter at the library benefit.

  He had remembered her, often, in fact. The unsurpassed elegance of her raven silk ball gown and teardrop briolettes; she was breathtaking. And attractive in the most dangerous way, more than superficially. Her face was pretty enough, considered conventionally, but nothing out of the ordinary. Sophie Massot’s charm was in her elegance, her style, and more than that, her personal dignity.

  Women made Hugh Montfort edgy, pleased, aroused, in turn; they did not often make him feel small. But Sophie had sharply corrected his arrogance. He admired her for it.

  He walked through the drizzle, grey skies matchi
ng the grey stones of the city. It had been a snapshot of a woman, nothing more. And yet, she interested him.

  Sophie Massot was a puzzle. Nothing about her bearing fit the facts.

  He had reached the Left Bank, and realized he was heading for rue Faubourg and the Massot showroom. Hugh had been given a brief. The showrooms were redesigned, and foot traffic appeared to be slightly up, but nothing to cause them any alarm. A non-event, then.

  He still wanted to see it for himself.

  There was a doorman outside, in a navy uniform and old-fashioned cap, who sprang to open the door.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning.” Hugh nodded. If that was the first change, he approved of it. He noticed everything: the man’s immaculate, wrinkle-free uniform, his pleasant manners; the gleaming brass trim on the new glass doors, and the heavy, reassuring heft of them as they opened. Soundproofing, he thought, and was proven right because as the door closed behind him, it swallowed up whole the sounds of the street, the hum of people and traffic.

  He took everything in with a quick glance, and was immediately impressed.

  Montfort had been to some Massot stores last year. This was unrecognizable. The interior of the showroom was full of flowers in fragrant cascades of pastels; not flowers, no, just roses. He admired the blond woods, the new cases, the deep blue velvet, the lighting, the assistants; it was all very rich, very feminine.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  A young woman in a pink Chanel suit had materialized by his side. She wasn’t pretty, but she was, he noted, extremely well put together. There was a small brooch of gold—pure gold—a bar, with her name on it in raised letters, CLAUDETTE CHIRON. Montfort felt a thrill of appreciation. Assistants in Chanel, and their nameplates a piece of jewellery—twenty-four karat.

  “Can I offer you any assistance this morning?”

  “I think I’ll just look,” Montfort said. There were ten other people in the showroom, four of them browsing, the rest being helped with purchases. He could see tissue paper and ribbons. A dowager who had just finished paying walked towards him, and he realized the carrier bag was made of pale pink satin, stamped with the Massot logo in gold.

  “Very good, sir. Do please summon me if you have any questions.”

  Mlle Chiron smiled at him and melted away.

  Questions? He had hundreds. Who was responsible for this magnificent look? He might want to hire them. More importantly, for his bid, how much did this cost?

  He walked over to one of the cases; this was a grouping of necklaces. Not like his own firm, there were no ranges; each piece was bespoke. There were also no prices.

  Was this madness? The free-spending caprice of a spoiled bitch, as the journalist had charged? Sophie Massot indulging a talent for interior design with other people’s money?

  He bent to examine the pieces in the case.

  They had been grouped stylistically. This case was full of bold colours and styles, while the one a few feet from him gleamed with discreet tones of silver and moonlight: opals, platinum, pearls, and zircons.

  These pieces were more modern. Hugh eyed them with the appreciation of a connoisseur. They reminded him a little of Jean Schlumberger designs, the great twentieth-century master: bright green tsavorites threaded with violet tanzanite, yellow sapphires and emeralds, coral branches linked with diamonds and iolites, a necklace redolent of the ocean floor. There was flair, but it was never obvious; the colours contrasted, rather than clashed. He coveted each one. It was bitter that Montfort had no woman to hang them on. The yellow sapphires and emeralds, he thought at once, would have done very well for Georgie; they were vernal, like daffodils, showily beautiful, but with a certain irreverence that guaranteed good taste.

  He moved on to a different part of the room. Brooches. The Cinderella of modern jewellery; so few houses made decent brooches anymore. The younger set just did not wear them.

  Massot apparently did not care about the younger set.

  A quick glance estimated that there were more brooches in this room than any other kind of piece. And what brooches: animals, flowers, bars, geometric shapes, something to suit every taste, though not, he saw, every wallet. Montfort admired the creativity: aquamarine, peridot, and diamonds in an art deco style; a surreal Humpty Dumpty in ivory and yellow beryl; pink topaz, seed pearls, and garnets on a rose; moonstones with amethyst accents; a Star of David in cat’s-eye and ruby, very unusual; a brilliant-cut green tourmaline, set with chrysoberyl and turqoise cabochons in black gold.

  He felt quite privileged, even uplifted, to see work of this quality on sale. Surely gems like these belonged in museums.

  There was a classic peacock feather aigrette brooch in the centre of the display. Montfort nodded to himself; a student of jewellery had made this one. He knew he should keep his presence here secret, under the radar. But he could not help himself. He lifted his eyes, searching for the girl who had greeted him.

  She was standing behind the counter and noticed him at once. She came out to him promptly, her kitten heels clicking delicately on the wood floor.

  “What can you tell me about this brooch?” Montfort asked, pointing to it.

  “You have an excellent eye, Monsieur. That is the tribute of one of our designers to Tiffany’s feather brooch, containing the Brunswick diamond, which was exhibited in America in 1876.”

  “The Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia.”

  She smiled. “You know your history, Monsieur.”

  “But that is not a yellow diamond,” Montfort commented, nodding at the gloriously sparkling gem set in the centre of the feather.

  “No, Monsieur.” The girl waited, as it was clear Montfort wanted to guess.

  “It doesn’t have the depth of a yellow sapphire. Not quite beryl tint, either. I think it must be a very fine citrine with an unusual lemon cast.”

  Claudette inclined her head. “Monsieur is absolutely correct. The small stones outlining the surrounding diamonds are yellow sapphires, however.”

  Hugh sighed with pleasure. “Magnificent.”

  “Are you interested in purchasing the piece?”

  “I am,” he said. He had no idea why, except that it was outstandingly lovely, and he intended to have it.

  “This piece is ninety-five thousand euros.”

  “Expensive,” he commented.

  “Yes, Monsieur. But unique.” Claudette smiled. “There are over six hundred stones in the piece, exactly like the original. Unlike the original, though, the artist has used colours other than yellow—sapphires, emeralds, rubies, imperial topaz, and peridot as well as the white diamonds that form most of the piece. This, I think, ensures that it is a tribute, rather than a copy.”

  Hugh nodded.

  “If the style appeals, Monsieur, I can show you some other, smaller examples that may suit your taste that are under fifteen thousand.”

  “No, this is the one. Wrap it up for me, please.”

  “Certainly, Monsieur.”

  Her face showed no surprise that he was making such a costly purchase. She removed the brooch delicately from the case and carried it to the counter, where a second well-dressed assistant, a man this time, wrapped it expertly in gossamer-soft tissue paper and royal blue ribbon, placing it in a rose-coloured jewellery case. It nestled, glittering, against the satin, and Hugh thought with satisfaction that it might be the most beautiful thing he owned.

  He passed her his credit card, which Mlle Chiron took without examining it.

  “Thank you very much, M. Montfort,” she said.

  His head lifted. She had not looked at the card, which must mean she recognized him. It suddenly struck him that his romantic impulse was foolish. The press would love that story. Hostile bidder seduced by Massot’s new look.

  “Mademoiselle—” he began.

  “It is all right, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “At House Massot we maintain complete confidentiality about the purchases of our clients. All our clients. Without exception.
”

  “Thank you, Mlle Chiron.” Hugh paused. “For what it is worth—I have been most impressed today.”

  She bowed her head slightly.

  “Monsieur is most kind, but perhaps he should direct his compliments to the party responsible.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mme Massot, of course,” she said.

  He went to lunch at a small café tucked down a side street. It didn’t have much of an awning, and the menu in the window was only in French. Hugh correctly deduced he would get an outstanding meal there. The place was crowded, but Hugh didn’t care. The food lifted him out of himself, and besides, he wanted to be alone.

  Mlle Chiron had arranged to have the aigrette delivered to his hotel, with instructions it be placed in the safe. Montfort was not afraid of being mugged; men had tried twice before, once in the West End and once in a rough part of Los Angeles, and both had left with broken bones and smashed noses. But he knew he was distracted, and didn’t want to worry about leaving it somewhere.

  Everything was going well. The press, the shareholder response. All the pieces seemed to be falling into place. Whatever the hard, sexy American’s information, he did not think he would need it.

  All I have to do is wait for the shareholder meeting, Hugh thought, and Massot will be mine.

  It would be his greatest triumph as a Mayberry executive. His brand lifted to world domination.

  And after that . . . then what?

  He chose not to face that question. Hugh took a final sip of the excellent house wine, then settled the bill, tipping 50 percent.

  He walked out to the street, avoiding the waiter’s effusive thanks. A taxi was passing, slowing because of the narrowness of the road, and Montfort hailed it.

  “Bonjour,” he said. “Rue Tricot, s’il vous plait.”

  He trusted his instincts, and they told him to go see Sophie Massot.

  Sophie picked up her phone. Her new secretary was buzzing her. Celine had proven to be incredibly grateful and hardworking, and had kept her head down. Sophie was delighted with her; there had been no repeat of her standoffishness to Judy Dean.