“Everything OK, Mr. O’Donnell? You want I’m doing something different?” The girl looked up from between his legs, her head cocked to one side like a curious dog. She seemed bewildered by his softening erection and could tell that something was wrong.
Brogan looked down at her and immediately felt himself hardening again. Her pink lipstick was smudged around her glorious, overwide lips, and her chin glistened with saliva and the sweat of her efforts. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more wantonly desirable.
“Get up here,” he said, smiling. “I want to fuck you.”
Pushing back his chair so she could climb out of her cramped hiding place, he helped her to her feet, then turned her around and bent her over the desk. Yanking down her True Religion jeans—she was so skinny, he didn’t even need to undo them but could pull them right off—and cheap Victoria’s Secret panties, he drove himself into her, releasing all his pent-up anger and aggression with every thrust.
Dascha oohed and aahed obediently, but it couldn’t have been much of a pleasure ride for her; it was over so quickly. Once he’d come, he lay slumped over her for a moment, his heavyset, bulldog body pressing down on her fragile frame like a paperweight on a flower. Then he withdrew, wiping himself with a tissue from the box on the desk and pulling up his pants while she did the same.
“If you want some more, I can wait,” she said helpfully, reaching into her purse for face wipes and makeup, reapplying her lipstick as if nothing of any importance had just happened. “I don’t have any jobs this afternoon.”
Brogan smiled. “No, no, that was fine,” he said. “But I appreciate you coming by. I can tell you’re going to be a great asset to Premiere.”
Once she’d gone, his mind turned quickly back to tonight’s party. Apart from the De Beers and Cuypers guys, there were a number of other people he wanted to see. Nothing gave Brogan quite the same thrill as crushing a business rival, and there was one particular individual, one of his American competitors in Russia, whose company he’d recently had the pleasure of annihilating, who was rumored to be coming tonight. Having grown up dirt-poor himself, a fighter who’d worked hard and played dirty for every cent he’d ever made, Brogan had never let go of the ruthlessness that had made him such a rich man. The diamond business was notoriously clubby. Having no family name, no connections, and, crucially, being a gentile, had put him at a hell of a disadvantage in his early years as a trader and smuggler before he hit the big time buying up cheap, poorly managed mines in Congo and Zaire. By the time he moved into South Africa, and later Russia, he was already a wealthy man, and doors that were once locked to him had begun, slowly, grudgingly, to open. But he’d got to where he was without asking anything of anybody. If people wanted to try and paint him as the Big Bad Capitalist Wolf now, that was their problem. In his own mind, he was the living embodiment of the American dream, and he dismissed all criticism of himself and his company as straightforward envy.
“Sir?” The voice of his secretary, the coolly efficient Rose, drifted over the intercom on his desk.
He hit speaker. “Yes. What is it?”
“It’s Mrs. O’Donnell on line one. Are you available to take the call?”
Brogan thought about it for a second. “No. Tell her I’m in a meeting, will you, and I’ll call her back in about ten minutes? I need some time to get my head together. She’s in rather a fragile state at the moment.”
“Will do,” said Rose, and the line went dead.
Walking over to the window, looking out at the snow sparkling like a billion tiny diamonds in the dazzling winter sun, he thought about his wife, Diana. He knew, or thought he knew, what this call would be about: another early miscarriage. They were on their fourth cycle of IVF—his sperm apparently preferred attacking one another to racing toward the egg, plus Diana had some sort of cysts that made the whole thing difficult on her end—and the specialist had already told them on Monday that it wasn’t looking good. Brogan himself couldn’t have cared less about children. He’d never much liked other people’s, and he already had a business empire to leave to posterity. But he knew Diana felt utterly bereft without them, and he wanted to make things right for her.
Despite his workaholism, serial infidelities, and complete lack of remorse, in his own way Brogan did love his wife. Diana was precious to him, like a rare bird that he daren’t release or even stroke for fear of damaging it in some way, but which he cherished from a distance. Born into a well-off, stable family from Connecticut, she was everything that he wasn’t: educated, gentle, secure in herself in a quiet, unassuming sort of way. Making love to her wasn’t exciting in the way that screwing young models was exciting. It was more like sticking your scalded hand into cool water—a sort of blissful relief. Congenitally incapable of showing affection in any normal, expected ways, he tried to express his love by showering her with diamonds, real estate, and other expensive, though not necessarily romantic, gifts. When she failed to react with the hoped-for enthusiasm, he withdrew further, deepening the already vast divide between them. Having a child, he knew, would be the one sure way to bridge that divide, a gift for which she would remain slavishly and everlastingly grateful. But infertility was the one problem in his life that money alone couldn’t solve. He’d already paid top dollar for the best IVF specialists in the world, but so far nothing seemed to be working, leaving Diana increasingly desperate and Brogan feeling furious and impotent in more ways than one.
He did feel sorry for his wife. But he also hoped she wasn’t going to use this latest setback, if she was bleeding again, as an excuse to bow out of tonight’s party at Tiffany. Wives were expected at these events. He needed her there, looking stylish and making intelligent, ladylike conversation with Mrs. De Beers and Mrs. Cuypers.
If the IVF had fucked up, they could always try again.
Meanwhile, across town in Greenwich Village, Nancy and Scarlett were up in one of the guest bedrooms of Nancy’s parents’ palatial brownstone, trying on outfits for tonight.
“It’s ridiculous,” said Scarlett, standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bra and underwear. “I go to so many of these things nowadays, but I’m still never sure how to pitch it. Should I go for sober businesswoman?” She held up a severe, black Calvin Klein suit with a killer pencil skirt.
“Very ‘Angelina at the UN,’” said Nancy.
“Or wild, artistic genius?” Pulling her newest acquisition, a tiered, multicolored Marchesa gypsy skirt, out of its bag, Scarlett held it to her waist and twirled around and around.
“I’d go for the skirt,” said Nancy, looking at her friend’s flawless model figure with good-natured envy. “Everyone in New York lives in black; you’ll stand out more in color. Besides, I can’t wear my red flamenco number if you turn up dressed all CNN.”
Nancy Lorriman and Scarlett Drummond Murray had been firm friends since the age of thirteen, when Nancy had arrived at St. Clement’s Girls’ Boarding School in Inverness, shivering like a polar explorer in her lightweight American clothes and wondering if she’d landed on the set of a Munsters remake, and Scarlett had taken her under her wing. Physically, they were as different as different could be, with blonde, curvy Nancy standing almost a foot shorter than Scarlett, who as a teenager was as tall, pale, and skinny as an unripe stick of asparagus. But they immediately recognized one another as kindred spirits—bright, independent-minded, romantic, and, in Nancy’s case particularly, harboring a strong rebellious streak.
Nancy’s father had sent her to St. Clement’s on a whim, having seen the school advertised in the back of a magazine and developed a notion that Scotland was a land of beauty and mystery in which his daughter couldn’t fail to blossom. The fact that the school itself looked like Cinderella’s castle had been an added bonus, and besides, he was running out of options in New York, where Nancy had already been expelled from two schools and was hardly being welcomed with open arms by others.
A sweet kid but highly intelligent and consequently easil
y bored, Nancy also suffered from being the only child of very wealthy, older parents who spoiled her with material things but left her too much in the care of nannies and were far too overprotective. Yearning for freedom and adventure of the sort she read about constantly in books, Nancy spent much of her early life giving her nannies the slip and running off on her own into the Manhattan streets that became her private playground.
To say that St. Clement’s came as a shock, with its rigid rules and routine, revolting food, and subzero dormitories, would be a serious understatement. She contemplated running away, but Scarlett soon convinced her that there was really nowhere to go—Inverness had little to offer in terms of urban excitements. They would simply have to rely on each other’s company and make their own excitement, tormenting their poor teachers with a litany of pranks and amusing their classmates with tales of their latest misbehavior.
Somehow both girls made it through to graduation without being expelled, and both achieved creditable grades. After Scarlett went to London to model, Nancy raced delightedly back to the States to study journalism at NYU, and the two girls lost touch for a while. But when they reconnected a few years ago, it was as if nothing had changed. Scarlett might now be a hotshot designer and Nancy an up-and-coming Hollywood screenwriter, but at heart they were still the same two mischievous misfits they’d been at school.
“What do you think?”
Nancy had poured herself into a pillar-box-red dress with a ruffled train that clung to her curves like shrink-wrap. All she needed was the beauty spot and little-girl voice and she’d be the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe.
“I think the rest of us might as well not bother,” said Scarlett, truthfully. “You’ll outsex every woman there by a hundred to one.”
“Good,” said Nancy, beaming. “I’m tired of being single, and I’m tired of living in a city where most women’s idea of dressing up is wearing a visible diamante thong with their Juicy sweatpants. I mean, if you can’t go to town at Tiffany’s, right?”
“Right,” said Scarlett. She, too, was tired of being single. She hadn’t had a date since October, and that was a disaster, as the guy had turned out to be married. But between Bijoux and her Trade Fair commitments, there never seemed enough time to look for suitable men. It didn’t help that most guys in the diamond business were sharper than razor blades and about as trustworthy as John Edwards at a campaign stop. Certainly she didn’t hold out much hope of breaking her romantic losing streak tonight.
The original Tiffany store on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-Seventh Street was such an iconic New York landmark, forever associated with Audrey Hepburn and the glamour of the Breakfast at Tiffany’s days, that the decision to open a second Manhattan location featuring younger, hipper designers sent shockwaves through both the jewelry industry and the city. Plans for the new store, its interior and layout, had been more closely guarded than the Kremlin’s nuclear defense procedures, so there was much excitement and anticipation surrounding today’s grand unveiling.
Not until six p.m. were the brown hoardings masking the building at last removed and the red carpet rolled out onto the sidewalk. A huge swath of Madison Avenue had already been cordoned off by this time, as police struggled to hold back the swelling crowd of press and civilian gawkers who’d come to watch the first big celebrity party of the year get under way.
They weren’t disappointed. By six fifteen, a steady stream of limousines was arriving, discharging their famous occupants onto the sidewalk from where, after a quick red-carpet twirl and wave, they’d disappear into the sumptuous new building. Actors, singers, politicians, and a smattering of A-list socialites swarmed into the atrium one after another, mingling with the unknown but usually infinitely wealthier scions of the diamond business, be they producers, dealers, or buyers.
Scarlett, with her designer’s eye, was more struck by the astonishing array of pieces on display in open, laser-alarmed cases, and by the beauty of the store itself, than by the star-studded guest list.
“Have you seen what they’ve done with the light in this foyer?” she gasped admiringly to Nancy. “It’s like standing in the center of a princess-cut diamond and working one’s way out. Each of those anterooms is like one of the facets, do you see?”
“I’ll tell you what I see,” said Nancy. “I see George Clooney standing by the bar on his own. I’m gonna try and score a date.”
Once again, Scarlett marveled at her friend’s limitless confidence as she watched her sashay across the marble floor, Louboutin heels clacking and red satin bottom wiggling sexily like Jessica Rabbit. Still, why not? She looked so jaw-droppingly fabulous tonight, Gorgeous George might just have met his match.
Feeling distinctly less fabulous herself—she’d plumped for the gypsy skirt, which was divine but more girlie than sexy, a white ruffled peasant blouse, and flat, jeweled sandals—she lingered a little longer over the jewelry cases by herself before finally steeling herself to go and mingle. Small talk had never been a forte, but there were influential people here who could really help her with her Trade Fair campaign. She’d kick herself in the morning if she hadn’t plucked up the courage to talk to any of them.
Meanwhile, in a busy corner of the mezzanine level, Diana O’Donnell was nodding absently at the South African woman talking to her, wishing she were anywhere but here. Brogan had insisted she come tonight, practically marched her here at gunpoint, but all she could think about was the tiny fertilized egg that was right now working its way out of her body, unable to cling onto life. The doctors were forever telling her not to personalize things.
“Don’t think of it as a baby, Mrs. O’Donnell,” they said. “It’s really only a tiny ball of cells, nothing more.”
But to Diana it was much, much more. It was a child; her child. Each of those tiny fertilized specks contained within it the entire sum of her hopes for the future. Losing one felt like having her heart ripped out, and it got worse every time.
“I said to Michael the day I married him,” the South African woman was saying in her piercing Afrikaans accent, “I said, ‘Michael, I don’t care how many diamonds you sell, or how many millions you make. I will not share my bed with your bloody mobile phone.’ He’s pretty good about it most of the time, but you know what the New Year’s like in our business: hectic, hectic, hectic.” She laughed, looking to Diana for affirmation, and Diana dutifully laughed back.
“Is Brogan addicted to his BlackBerry as well?” asked the woman, grabbing a passing waiter and helping herself to a caviar-and-quail’s-egg blini, which she dispatched into the recesses of her ample stomach in under a second. She really was a remarkably unattractive girl, thought Diana. Like a female sumo wrestler, if female sumo wrestlers got to be sponsored by Ungaro. Then again, her husband, a squat toad of a man deep in conversation with Brogan, was no oil painting either.
“BlackBerry addiction is the least of my husband’s problems,” rejoined Diana, sadly. Then, realizing she might have said too much, added, “But all successful men love their work, don’t they? I think that great, overwhelming drive must be part of their appeal.”
Downstairs on the ground floor, an eight-piece jazz band struck up the first chords of “Night and Day.” A few brave couples drifted idly onto the makeshift dance floor, but most remained glued to the various bars, raising their voices to be able to continue their conversations about how much x stone sold for at auction, or exactly what the markup was on some of the more outrageous Tiffany pieces.
“You’re paying for the name, of course,” Danny Meyer was explaining to a busty television actress, the star of NBC’s latest mobster drama, as he handed her a mojito. “Half of these pieces are semiprecious, but the prices are gemstone all the way.”
“You think you can do me a better deal?” the girl asked flirtatiously. He was a little short, but she adored his confidence and had already decided that his North London accent was the sexiest thing she’d heard in years. He was definitely more interesting than the standard-issue New
York suits who usually asked her out.
“Sweetheart, trust me; I can do you a much better deal. I’m purely a diamond man myself, but I work with some of the best private jewelers in the city, real craftsmen. Any of this lot, half price,” he said, sweeping his arm in the general direction of the glass cases surrounding them, much as a market trader might wave away a competitor’s inferior stall of bananas.
“Don’t believe a word he says.” Jake, vulgarly resplendent in a cream Miami Vice suit with a big seventies collar, pink shirt, and silver Sean John silk tie, appeared behind his brother like a grinning ghost. “He’ll rob you blind soon as look at you, won’t you, Dan?”
“Annalise, this is my twin brother, Jake,” said Danny, rolling his eyes melodramatically. “And if you can trust a man in a suit that loud, you deserve to get done over.”
“Hi,” said Annalise, thinking how much she would enjoy being “done over” by Jake or Danny, or perhaps even both of them together. “Your brother here’s been trying to talk me out of buying from Tiffany.”
“I should think so too,” said Jake, reaching across her to grab a mojito of his own. “We’re Jewish, you see. Paying retail’s against our religion. Have you seen who’s here tonight, Dan?”
Danny laughed. “Everyone’s here. Can you be a bit more specific?”
“Up there, boring the tits off Michael Beerens from Cuypers.” He pointed up at Brogan, at the same time puffing out his chest and brilliantly mimicking the great man’s wide-legged stance and self-important, Julius-Caesar-addressing-the-troops posture. “Silly twat. He really thinks he’s Tony fucking Soprano, doesn’t he?”
Annalise giggled. “Who is he?”
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