Judy did not count. She had slept with his son, but that was what easy girls like her did. He had no doubt that eventually he would need to kill her—Judy knew too much. But not immediately. She was an alibi, and an albatross. One murder, meticulously planned years in advance, he could get away with; two, close together, he doubted it. She would be bribed and fucked into submission.
It was the others whom he would attend to.
Chiefly, to his darling wife. . . .
Who would have thought she had it in her? Quiet, elegant, grateful little Sophie, obedient and maternal. To take the reins, dabble in business, fight her son. Poor conduct. No wife of his should have a public role other than on his arm. He had given her everything, but she had wanted more.
She had declared him dead. She had fucked another man.
The whole world knew that Pierre Massot’s woman had lain in the bed of another.
His son, his son had cozied up to Sophie’s lover. His son had not chosen to wait for him.
Montfort. Once just an annoyance—now, an enemy. He must be crushed, but again, Pierre would do it slowly. He knew something of the man’s war record. Montfort was a soldier, a professional killer. In this case, deception would be necessary.
And . . . Katherine.
Katherine. She had been the closest to faithful. But she had flinched in one respect. Arranging the sale of her shares to that fool Stockton. He could not tell if it was a mistake. He knew, of course, that she hated Sophie. Had Katherine allowed her chafing to undermine his wishes? Was her loathing of Sophie so strong that she would sell his trust?
Pierre thought so. Poor, obsessed Tasha, he thought; how completely, how totally he would always own her. He thought with fondness of her little ruse: get Judy to take up with Tom. Perfect! It ruined Sophie, and, she must have thought, would ruin Judy; how could he love the woman that slept with his own son?
Even now, after half a lifetime with him, she did not understand.
He did not love. There was approval, and disapproval—fondness at best. I rely upon myself, Pierre thought; it is why I am still alive. And why I will win.
He would manage things perfectly. His wife’s new “marriage” would be destroyed; she was a foolish, credulous Catholic, a believer in a god; she would know her wedding to Montfort was invalid. Let them be torn apart; Sophie would have to come back to him. He would possess her, and do it brutally. He would use her nightly, and she would be under his psychological control. He thought of Sophie with contempt. No way she had changed.
Montfort could pine for his new love; he would lose her like he lost the last one.
Tom would also come to the whip. He would drag him home, in disgrace. No playing at business, no college abroad. If he didn’t want to be disinherited, he would do exactly what Papa told him, from now on. Pierre demanded obedience. Tom would learn.
There was no doubt that Katherine would be penitent. She would suffer as she always had; he was not going to give Sophie up. Or, for that matter, Judy.
Wife, mistress, son—all would go on as before. The company would revert to him.
He was going to put everything right.
There was a squeak, and the door opened; Judy had come back from her hair appointment; she looked attractive and fresh. She was wearing the dress he had told her to put on.
“You called them all?”
“They are assembled. The ballroom of the St. Louis hotel. TV is there too.” She looked anxious. “Shall we go? They’re waiting.”
Pierre smiled at her benignly. “Well, they have written about unimportant nonsense for the past year: you, Tom, Sophie, M. Stockton . . . perhaps we should give them a real story?”
Judy walked up to the podium. The room was only half full; there were gaps. Some papers thought the House Massot saga had run its course. She was anxious; would Pierre be angry?
At least two TV cameras were there, though. That would have to do. She knew that the mainstream stations could get their tape. Thankfully, the beauty parlour hadn’t let her down; her face was about to be all over the evening news.
She focussed. She imagined Sophie, watching this—watching her.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman. As you know, I am a former director of publicity for House Massot. Some of you may be familiar with events at that company since Mme Massot had her husband legally declared dead.”
Judy arched one plucked eyebrow, and the hacks faked a polite laugh.
“A week ago I received a visitor, who has been staying at my apartment to recuperate from an ordeal. He did not wish to make this announcement until he felt well enough to deal with your questions.”
Now there was a slight murmur in the crowd. She had whetted their appetites; she looked at the newly interested faces.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Pierre Massot.”
Silence. They stared at her, mockingly; there was a low hum of derision. Surely the woman had finally lost her mind?
And then the door swung open, and he walked confidently down the aisle to the podium.
For the first second there was nothing but shock. And then, pandemonium.
“Yes, you in the front,” Pierre said. He saw Judy in his peripheral vision, hands folded demurely in her lap. She had done a good job. The thin crowd had filled, as more and more reporters burst into the conference. He had taken question after question, deftly fielding them all. Kidnap. Imprisonment. Torture. Escape. He had no idea what had happened to poor Gregoire, perhaps it was Russian mafia revenge. Yes, he would cooperate with the gendarmes. He wanted answers as to why they had not protected his dear friend.
Judy smiled softly; it was her Pierre again, the man she had known and worshipped—distinguished, battle-scarred, but utterly in control. He was even enjoying himself.
“Why did you stay at Miss Dean’s? Is it true you two were having a relationship?”
“That’s a scurrilous rumour. I have been faithful to my wife. There are those who take great pleasure in spreading lies about those who are not there to defend themselves.” He glanced at Judy, sitting there prim as a nun. “Miss Dean is one of the few people I trust.”
“Why didn’t you go back to your château?”
Ah, the moment he had been waiting for. Pierre lowered his head and spoke in a heavy, hopeless tone.
“All that sustained me in those dark years was the thought of my wife and my little boy,” he said. “I loved and believed in them, and I waited for the day when I could be close to them again. I knew they would stay strong for me.” He allowed his eyes to brim, then brushed away a tear as if angry. “That didn’t happen. I discover that my wife had me declared dead, and has married again. My son has sold my company. I may wind up in a court battle with my own family. It hurt me so much that at first I didn’t know if I could face them.”
The press went berserk; he could not hear through the shouting match of questions, and he selected one man at the front. “Yes.”
“Are you going to try to get your wife back?”
“Well, that’s up to her, of course. I gather people have told Sophie lies about my conduct while we were married.” Pierre looked soulfully into the camera. “If you can hear this, darling, it’s still true. I pray we can rebuild our family. I married you in the eyes of God, and I am still here. Sophie—it’s time to come home.”
He held up one hand through the noise, tried to speak, and couldn’t—it was all so easy. Judy, picking up her cue, jumped on the mike.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will be all. Please allow Mr. Massot some time to get over his grief. I am about to drive him to the château where he will be reunited with his mother.”
“Yes, thank you; yes, I have heard. Goodbye.”
Hugh replaced the receiver and stood up. His face was grey.
“Mrs. Percy . . .”
“Yes, sir.” Elizabeth rushed out. “I’ll close the office.” She hovered by the door. “Mr. Montfort—Hugh—I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Thank you,�
� he said bleakly. “Where is . . .”
He had intended to say “Mrs. Montfort,” but the words died on his lips.
“In the studio, with the Brandts.”
“Does she have her cell phone with her?”
“No, sir. She left it with me. She didn’t want them to be disturbed in a creative session.”
“Thank you.” He glanced at his watch as he walked out of the door; only nine thirty-three in the morning, her meeting was due to last another hour. He hoped they had not taken a break for coffee. This was something she should hear only from him.
On the street, the traffic was ridiculous; even with the charge to drive in London now, at rush hour one still could not move. Hugh would not risk being stuck in traffic. Covent Garden was three miles as the crow flies; despite his Savile Row suit and John Lobb shoes, Hugh started to run.
People stared, but he paid them no mind. Sophie, his wife—not his wife, his love, his hope, his life—she was all he cared for, now. If he lost her, there was no point in being alive. Hugh took his soldier’s training, and used it. He ran, as though hell were pursuing him—and after a fashion, it was.
Sophie held the brooch in her hands and sighed for pure pleasure.
It was a glorious piece of work. A tulip, with folded petals of creamy white mother-of-pearl spiked with tiny lines of yellow sapphires; the stalk a row of channel-set emeralds, and the three leaves of peridot, Russian chrome diopside, and tsavorite garnet. All cheap gemstones, but the brilliance lay in the variant colors of green—pale, dark, spring—they gave the flower a delicate verisimilitude that one might expect in a museum piece.
“Fourteen karat?”
“Yes,” Rachel Greenberg answered her. “The price point will be four ninety-nine.”
“No,” Sophie exclaimed. “You can get it that low?”
“Manufacturing cost will be barely a hundred and ten. I expect to sell out the range,” she said proudly. “There’s a red one done using cherry opal and a yellow one done with citrines, they have white and blue spikes in seed pearl and iolite.”
“Fantastic.” Sophie stroked the glittering little thing. “They’re so elegant, so perfect for spring. You could charge thousands for this. What did the Brandts think?”
Rachel blushed. “They were very kind. . . .”
“I bet they were. This is wonderful work.” Sophie looked at the young designer; indeed, it was a hopeful sign that this was being produced by a pupil of Gertrud’s. The Brandts would not be there forever, and Montfort must not depend on any one designer; Pete Stockton had learned that the hard way. “I can’t wait to send it out to Vogue and Cosmo. Congratulations, Rachel.You’ll get a bonus.”
Rachel beamed. “Really?” She was only twenty-four.
“Of course. One percent of the profits made from this line. It could be quite a lot, if it does as well as I think it will.”
The young girl looked amazed. Sophie smiled; she wanted her to learn. Business was fun, and if you made something commercial, you should benefit. How else would you get people to give you their best work?
There was a sharp knock at the door. Sophie recognized it at once, and thrilled: Hugh. What was he doing here? Come to steal her for lunch—a bit early. Maybe take her to bed. That would be nice.
“Tell you what, Rachel, why don’t you take the rest of the day off. Come in,” she called out.
The door pushed open, and there he was, panting, sweating. The squirming in her stomach died at once.
“Mr. Montfort.” Rachel noticed too. “Are you okay?”
He looked at her, and she shrank back.
“Give us a moment, please, Miss Greenberg.”
“Yes—of course,” she muttered, and hastily exited the room.
“My God, darling, what’s happened?” Sophie exclaimed. Fear flooded her. “It’s not Tom—not my Tom?”
“No, nobody’s died.” Hugh grimaced. “Quite the reverse, in fact.”
Sweat was pouring off him; Sophie saw the stains on his suit.
“My darling—my sweetheart,” she said.
“Don’t.” Hugh held up a hand. “Sophie—don’t call me that.”
She stared.
“Sophie.” There was no way to soften it. “Pierre’s alive.”
“What?” she whispered.
“Pierre is alive. He’s in Paris.”
“Impossible.”
“He says he was kidnapped and jailed in Russia. He denies having an affair with Judy. He says that the stories about him and other women are just gossip.”
She just stood there. She couldn’t take it in.
“You’ve spoken to Pierre?” she asked numbly.
“He was on television.”
“It’s not him. An impostor . . .”
“It is him, Sophie. There’s no mistaking it. He looks like Tom thirty-five years from now. And anyway, I remember him well,” Hugh said, leadenly.
Sophie didn’t ask if this was a joke. Hugh would never play with her in that manner. She stared into space.
“Hugh, is it true? That there were no other women?”
“It was common knowledge that there were many other women. I personally did not follow the gossip.” He had agonized as to how to answer this question. “I believe that there were, but I have no proof.”
“Then why didn’t he call me?”
“His answer was that he was so hurt by what he termed your betrayal that he could not face you. He has been staying with Judy Dean, whom he denies is his lover.”
Sophie closed her eyes and tried to cope with the pain.
“He’s lying,” she said eventually, and Hugh felt one of the iron bands of grief around his heart snap. “That conversation, in my office—when I found out Judy was his mistress. She was not insane, and she was not lying. He cheated on me for eight years.”
There was a leaden silence in the room.
“Are we married?” Hugh said, eventually.
Sophie shook her head, mutely. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“He’s going to the château.”
“Tom will be there. I must go,” she said. “I must meet him.”
Hugh was silent.Would she say nothing to him? He would not ask her.
“Darling,” she said. “I am still married to Pierre. I can divorce him, though.”
“I thought Catholics didn’t believe in divorce.”
“Civil divorce for a good reason is all right—when it’s truly necessary. I think this qualifies, don’t you?”
“So we could marry—after that?”
“I would still be married to him in the eyes of God. But I will seek an annulment. I don’t think he believed he’d be faithful when we first got married. I—I did intend to love him.” She sounded despairing. “I would have to prove what he was thinking . . . at the time.”
“And can you?”
She paused.
“I don’t know.”
“I love you,” Hugh said.
“I love you, too. I always will.”
“I have nothing to say. No comment,” Tom Massot shouted.
He shoved through the throng of photographers. The bulbs pop-popped in his face; microphones and booms were shoved at him, and the bright lights of the cameras half-blinded him.
“Move!” he yelled. He wrenched open the door to his Lam borghini. “I’m driving out of here. This is private property. As is the château. If I catch you on my land I’ll call the police.”
“Isn’t it your father’s land?” some woman screeched. “Are you mad you lost your inheritance?”
Tom wrenched the door shut. His heart was pounding; he found it hard to breathe. They were banging on the windows, flashbulbs were going off, juddering the light inside the car. The adrenaline had made his palms sweaty, and he wiped them on his trousers. He took a steadying, ragged breath. He didn’t want to die in a car crash before he had a chance to see Papa.
Carefully, he eased the car back, the heel of his palm on the horn. Blasting it. It was up t
o those cockroaches to move. Cursing, they scuttled back. Tom deftly wrenched the wheel to the left, spun the car around—thank God she handled so beautifully. He pulled out of the garage and wheeled into the streets of Paris. Heading home. Heading to his father.
“They should all be there by now,” Judy said. “Do you want to head out?”
Pierre looked at his watch. “No—Sophie will be coming from London. I will wait until this afternoon, when all are assembled. It is better to deal with them together. For now, we can just stay here.”
“Right.” Judy twisted her fingers.
“You want to say something?”
“It’s just that ... at the press conference ... I didn’t expect you to say that about Sophie . . . that you loved her.” Judy looked at him anxiously. “You love me . . . right? You’re going to marry me . . . get a divorce?”
“Of course I am.” He came over, gently raised her hand to his lips. “My Judy, who loved me all the time.”
“Then why did you say that?”
He released her hand. The questioning was not good; he frowned, lightly, to watch her expression change. Like all women, she had to be kept on a tight leash.
“I need a year or so, Judy. I intend to break her. To ruin her. She must lose everything. First, that bastard Montfort. I want him to know I’m fucking his wife.” A cruel smile. “A man like him will never touch her after that. She needs to be punished. Broken, mentally. Then I will divorce her in disgrace, and you will be the chatelaine.”
“Your mother . . . won’t like that. Nor your son,” Judy dared to say.
Pierre shrugged. “You know me, beloved. I make the decisions. I am the head of this family. Everybody will learn to respect it.” He smiled. “And in the meantime, we will have each other. You will found your own PR firm, and Massot will give you contracts that will make you rich beyond your wildest dreams, as the Americans say. You have waited this long, Judy. Can you wait some more?”
She nodded.
Two years, he thought, two years, and then a tragic boating accident on the Seine. As if he would ever marry a whore!
Sparkles Page 53
