That was what the château needed! A bit of life, a bit of light!
Tom walked into his own suite, thinking hard. He had calmed down now. He entered the bathroom, his father’s original bathroom. It was sumptuous, but all he wanted was a hot bath. To wash the smell of Judy, her carefully perfumed skin, away from him.
He tossed some Floris bath essence into the steaming water. He wished he had some Radox, which Polly always used, but this would do. He luxuriated in the basic physical pleasure of warm water, and wondered how he would handle this.
It was all up to him.
He decided—he would give Judy whatever she wanted. But if she demanded marriage, after tonight, it would be under duress. He would marry her only civilly, not in a church . . . and divorce her as soon as the child was born. At that time, he would give her an estate, but take the baby. What was money worth, if it couldn’t buy him justice? He would hire armies of the best lawyers in Europe. Or he would bribe her with still more cash. Whatever it took.
And then he’d marry Polly. If she’d have him. Which wasn’t at all certain.
Another thought came to him.
Bribes. Money. Wasn’t that what all these bastards wanted?
In the end it was only money that they cared about.
He had a weak case, maybe a nonexistent one, as far as House Massot went. The only reason it hadn’t been dismissed was the brilliance, and the relentless, highly paid persistence of his army of lawyers.
What if there were an easier way? What if he just bribed the fat slug of an American and his French lickspittle of a lackey? After all, why slave for Mayberry if you can retire with a private income? Stockton might control the shares, but Tom could buy and sell that toad ten times over.
Brilliant, he thought—and so traditional!
He hauled himself, dripping, from the bath, toweled off, and dressed hurriedly, pulling on the first suit and shirt he saw. No matter; everything in his wardrobe was bespoke. He looked good; apart from the damp hair, you would never know there had been any hurry.
He lifted the phone and rang down to the servants’ quarters.
“Good evening, M. Massot. Would you like some supper?”
“No thank you, Jacques; could you ask Richard to bring the car around to the drive? I am going to Paris.”
“Very good, Monsieur; the chef will await your return.”
“Just ask him to leave me a late supper in the kitchen, would you? I may be some time. And the staff can take the rest of the evening off.”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
The tone, he noted with embarrassment, was much less hostile these days. He supposed he’d become a bit less of an arrogant git.
Maybe, Tom thought, I’m growing up.
Chapter 51
Sophie gasped; she flung her head back and clutched at Hugh; waves of pleasure rocked through her. She couldn’t see. . . . She felt dizzy . . . it was perfect. . . .
It washed across her, subsided; she was there in his arms, clutching at him.
“My darling,” she said. “My darling . . .”
He kissed her, twice, then rolled away.
“I had no idea,” Sophie said.
He lifted a brow; he was bathed in sweat.
“None? I can’t believe that. . . .”
“It’s better—it’s so much better now.”
“Guilt-free, eh?” Hugh chuckled.
She blushed. “Something like that.Yes. And knowing you’re all mine now, and you’ll stay mine.”
“Well, I will admit that it is rather special,” Hugh said. He breathed in, slowing his racing heart. “That was a fairly record day.” He pulled Sophie to him, and kissed her again, tasting the salt of perspiration on her lips; she was beautifully flushed, and her skin was mottled.
“Never leave me,” Sophie said.
“Where would I go?” he replied.
“So now,” Stockton said. “We fire Judy.”
Gregoire Lazard smiled lazily. Finally, it looked like things might be going his way. “And you can do it in person, my dear Peter. She actually deigned to show up in the building this evening. She’s been making calls from her office for the last twenty minutes.”
Stockton grinned. “Pity, in a way. She’s a nice-looking piece of ass. . . .”
“We all know you’re not the first guy to sit in this office and think that.” Lazard laughed, coarsely.
“Go ahead, get her up here.”
He picked up the phone. “Judy, it’s Gregoire. Could you come up to Pete’s office, please?”
Stockton didn’t really care that Judy Dean had been an ally; she was as partisan as anybody else. Besides, his last two firings—Hugh and Tom—hadn’t gone exactly to plan. He was a bully, and throwing his weight at the little people always made him feel big.
He wanted to see that hard-as-nails little bitch crumple. He’d let her know her secret was coming out, too. So she couldn’t just flip him off and run home to the playboy prince. Judy Dean was finished, and he wanted to be there when it happened. . . .
A knock on the door.
“Enter,” he said.
There she was. She looked good, but a little flustered.
“Hi, Pete; hi, Gregoire,” she said.
“Judy, I have something to say to you.”
“And I to you. I quit.” she replied instantly, with a bright smile.
Stockton baulked. “What?”
It couldn’t just have happened a third time, could it? He thought Judy Dean was wedded to this job.
“You heard.” Judy turned up her pert nose. “And while you’re at it, stop eating. Those rolls of flab are just gross.”
“Hey! Just one second!” Stockton roared. “We called you here to sack you!”
“Don’t get excited, Pete, you’re obese. You’ll probably have a heart attack,” Judy said in a voice of mock concern. “And don’t wave your hands at me, nobody wants to see the sweat patches under your arms.”
There was a muffled snort from Lazard. Stockton turned on him, enraged.
“Shut the fuck up! And you, you goddamned bitch. You went with the father and the son. And we’re going to announce it all over national TV.”
Judy shrugged. “Who cares? At least I don’t have to pay people to fuck me, Pete. Goodbye, Gregoire; you’re the world’s worst executive and a total waste of skin, but at least you don’t stink like Pete. Adieu, losers!”
She pirouetted on one heel and walked out, chuckling.
Later that night, Stockton sat in his suite at the Crillon and wondered where it had all gone wrong. He was homesick. His dream had tanked. Montfort, that bastard, was printing money and Mayberry’s stock was sliding down the drain. He wanted to dump his own considerable portfolio, but after Enron, those busybodies on Capitol Hill had put a stop to corporate officers selling. . . .
Stockton shuddered. What would happen if this company failed?
It was possible. Jewellry was a nebulous business. You could forget that. It was about design value, like a fashion house or a perfume. Apart from the actual stock of gems, if House Massot, and worse, Mayberry, lost their cachet—more fucking French—then the company was worthless. There was no “there” there, as they say.
He wished that Sophie bitch hadn’t poached his lead designers. That was dumb. He should have wrapped them up in a contract so tight they could never get out. Ruin them if they tried to double-cross him.
Ruin them . . .
He gazed around at the sumptuous suite in the Crillon, with his balcony facing place de la Concord. Shit . . . if he lost his money ... What wasn’t in Mayberry stock?
There’d be no more hotels like this. No more limos. No more Claudia—she’d be out the door faster than a hooker after she got paid. Not that he loved her, but she was kind of familiar.
The phone rang.
“Lazard, where the fuck are you, you lazy bastard?”
“It’s not Gregoire Lazard. It’s Tom Massot.”
“And what the hell
do you want?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Go to hell.”
Tom was unfazed. “One that will make you very rich and rid you of the headache of House Massot.”
Stockton paused.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“This has to be done in person. I’m in the lobby. Would you like me to come to your suite?”
Pete clutched the receiver.
“Sure,” he said heavily. “Why the fuck not.”
Pete stared at the Massot kid. And he didn’t like what he saw. How was it possible the spoilt, petulant little brat he’d gulled into doing the merger looked like this? There was, unmistakably, a young man in front of him, not a boy. He carried himself differently; there was a seriousness to his tone, and determination in his eyes.
Tom Massot had been a fool.
This was someone to reckon with.
Stockton knew it instantly. Whatever his other faults, he had a sharp appreciation of danger. And Massot spelled trouble.
He was unpleasantly reminded of Hugh Montfort.
“Let’s hear this deal you got,” he said. He tried to sound hard, but he worried that Massot could sense his back was against the wall, that he was a cornered animal.
“I want to buy my company back.”
“You don’t have that kind of money, kid.”
“Not all of it, just a controlling stake. Mayberry and Massot aren’t the fit you thought they’d be.”
“We’ll make ’em fit,” said Stockton, unconvincingly.
“I’ll be blunt. The deal has been disastrous for you, me, and the stockholders. I’ve lost my father’s company, you’ve ruined your stock price—I’m sure your board’s about to fire you—and there are senior citizens out there who are seeing their retirement fund evaporate.”
Pete tried to think of a comeback. He could only manage a shrug.
“You need to pull something out of the fire. Announce that you’ll divest yourself of Massot, sell it to me. Then quit Mayberry. I’ll pay you a separate deal, on the side.”
“On the side?”
Massot nodded. “A separate deal between you and me. Private payment for services rendered.” His dark eyes swept across the American. “I’m sure you find it distasteful to be bound to Mayberry for your paycheck. Sell Massot to me before it goes bankrupt, and I’ll reward you in the way you deserve.”
“You’re bribing me?”
“I certainly am.”
Stockton thought about it for half a second. “Sounds good. I hate this fucking racket.” He stretched, sighed. “I’ll want six million euros or no deal.”
Tom Massot smiled coldly. “You’re not in a position to argue. I am going to form a company, Bagatelle Incorporated, registered in Switzerland. It will have assets of cash, mostly. I will issue you three million shares. There will be no restriction on your selling them, which you can do immediately. Bagatelle will have a value of ten million euros in ten million shares.”
Stockton closed his eyes; an immense sense of relief washed over him. Of course, this was the end of his little scheme with Lazard. No more dragging the kid’s name through the mud. But who the fuck cared about that, he was going to make about 3.5 U.S. His Mayberry stock might even improve once he dumped the Massot nightmare. Let this punk try to rescue it without the staff and the designers.
“You got it. How quick can we do this thing? I can’t let the directors find out.”
“I’ll form the company tomorrow; you’ll sell the share block to me at eleven a.m., at which time you will receive your shares.”
“I’ll say this for you, you don’t take nothing personal,” Stockton mumbled. “I figured you’d get all snotty about losing control in the first place, but I guess you know business is business.”
“Indeed,” Massot said. He turned to leave.
“I fired that tramp Judy Dean tonight,” Stockton said.
Massot turned around again, and his eyes flashed. “Don’t refer to Miss Dean in that manner.”
“Ohhhh.” Stockton smirked. Wow. Was he actually about to put one over on somebody? Sure looked that way. “But it’s an accurate term. You didn’t know, kid, I guess, huh?”
“Didn’t know what?”
“Long time before she was banging you, she was banging your dad.”
For once, Pete got the satisfaction he was hoping for. Massot’s face changed colour. He paled, then flushed a dark red. Rage? Shame? A bit of both.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” he said laconically. “Ask around if you don’t buy it. Anybody at Massot will tell you. It was an open secret, pretty much. Pierre bought her her apartment; she was his main broad for like six years.”
Tom said nothing. Stockton revelled in his obvious pain and embarrassment.
“No wonder your mom didn’t like her,” he reflected. “Wife and girlfriend together in the same office, everybody knowing, and then Judy hooks up with you? Course, it wasn’t like she was your dad’s only lay. He was wildcatting with a bunch of other chicks.” Stockton winked. “Aren’t we all, though, right? Guess I did you a favour in slinging her out on her ass—”
Tom Massot’s eyes were ice.
“Never speak of my father or mother in my presence again. And never mention Miss Dean again, either. Or I’ll come after you. Now, you’ve got a choice. Sell me the stock tomorrow at eleven a.m. sharp—the documents will be faxed to you by ten. Or sit back as Massot plunges into liquidation and you are ruined.”
Tom turned on his heel and walked out.
Judy tried to hurry home. She was a fast driver, but the traffic was shocking; seven o’clock, and still almost gridlock in the city center. Her painted nails drummed on the wheel. Damn it! She wanted to get home to Pierre. . . .
Divorce, would there be a divorce? Surely there must be. And then, she’d get hers. Finally—Pierre, her love . . .
He didn’t even care that she’d slept with his son. Of course, she’d have to call Tom . . . finesse that a bit.
Should Judy confess that there had never been a baby?
Not for want of trying. No contraception and sex on her most fertile days, but nothing. Every month she tested, every month, negative.
Or, should she say she’d had a miscarriage . . .
No, what if he told Pierre? That his woman had been carrying his own grandchild? Of course, Pierre said he wasn’t bourgeois, wasn’t shockable. But that might just do it. . . .
Judy’d need to get Tom off her back. Better to get it over with, to crawl, suck up. To him and that witch Katherine. . . .
If she was going to be Mrs. Pierre Massot, finally, she’d better start mending her fences. Tom wouldn’t be so hard. He was soft inside, not like his dad. And Sophie, she was in love with Hugh Montfort now. She’d be glad if Judy solved the problem of the returning husband, no?
Judy smiled, she was halfway to convincing herself that everything was going to be all right. Now if she could only get the fuck home!
This was crazy. She stuck her head out of her window to see what the problem was. Rush hour was over, it shouldn’t be like this. There must have been some kind of accident. Yeah—she could just make out flashing lights, a couple of miles ahead of her, near rue Salopette . . .
Judy turned on her radio. They were playing a cheesy Vanessa Paradis tune from the nineties. She flipped the dial, looking for a news station.
“. . . our top story at this hour, the gruesome murder in rue Salopette of a business executive . . . police have cordoned off a two-block area and traffic is backed up as far as the Seine . . .”
Judy’s stomach contracted. Rue Salopette . . . that was where Gregoire’s townhouse was . . . it couldn’t be . . .
“. . . formal identification yet to be released but sources are telling Radio Cinq that this is Gregoire Lazard, chief executive of scandal-hit French jewellers, House Massot. . . . Analysts report that this is turning into a situation similar to the Gucci family murders . . . no word yet
on whether there is a connection between this slaying and the bitter takeover battle being fought in the press between Thomas Massot and the new parent company, Mayberry . . .”
She switched the radio off. It took a second, because Judy’s fingers were shaking.
An hour ago she had been faxing all the information the company had on Gregoire Lazard to her own house.
To Pierre.
He couldn’t have. Could he? He was weak, skinny. . . .
Kill him. Because of what he’d done to Sophie? Was that the reason?
Was Pierre capable of killing? And had Judy helped him?
She was suddenly very cold. Trembling, she pulled the car to the side of the street and parked. Let them tow it. She didn’t give a damn. She had to see if Pierre was still in the apartment. There could be no waiting in traffic, not right now. . . .
She clambered out of the front seat, turned north, and started to run.
“Hello?” she shouted, as she pushed the front door open. Dear God! There was nobody here! “Hello?”
The sound of a latch; Judy spun around to see her bathroom door swing open, and Pierre emerge from it, a towel wrapped round his waist.
His body was covered in scars. She winced.
“Judy, be quiet,” he admonished. “I don’t want people to know I have returned.”
She closed the door. He didn’t seem to be disturbed.
“Thank you for the documents,” Pierre went on. He walked towards the bedroom, where a new set of men’s suits were hanging in her armoire. “I need them. I intend to finish that man.”
“Finish him?” Judy whispered.
“Yes.” He turned around to her, and gestured at the scars across his body. “I will pay him back for these. Firing him is not enough. He must go to jail for embezzlement. We must ensure that it is the worst jail in France. I hope he gets stuck in the ribs with a glass shiv. He would deserve it.”
Judy exhaled; her breath was ragged, but she was dizzy with relief.
Sparkles Page 50
