The Tides of Change

by Joanna Rees

  Of course, now that she knew he was gay, it was so damn obvious. Besides, Peaches thought wistfully, nobody this good-looking or eligible was ever straight.

  She saw his eyes dart towards Ross’s uncertainly. Had Ross told her about them? he was obviously thinking. It was clearly something that hadn’t been agreed.

  ‘So . . . Peaches Gold,’ he said, nodding and smiling. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Not as much as I’ve heard about you.’ There. If it was confirmation he was after, he’d got it. By the truckload.

  Todd Lands’s smile stayed fixed for a second, then he turned on Ross, who’d gone a lighter shade of purple.

  ‘You told her?’ he demanded.

  ‘I had to,’ Ross said defensively. ‘She’d have guessed. Anyway, you told Frankie.’

  ‘Only because I was responsible for destroying her whole goddamned life.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, for your information, Peaches’ life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses lately either.’

  Great, Peaches thought. This is all I need. The Bickersons. She decided it was time to crack the whip. ‘OK, OK, don’t start, you two,’ she said. ‘I won’t snitch. As Ross is well aware, I know more secrets than a Beverly Hills priest. And I keep my mouth shut. I’ve got my reputation to consider.’

  Ross and Todd glowered at each other, a whole silent conversation in just one look about who was to blame and how it felt to be outed in front of a stranger. Todd’s eyes flickered back to Peaches, searching for signs of deceit. Finally, he nodded, seemingly satisfied.

  ‘Now,’ Peaches said, ‘would one of you two please tell me about this cloak-and-dagger meeting you’ve set up?’

  Todd and Ross looked at each other again, but this time their antipathy seemed to melt. To be replaced by what? Peaches wondered. Apprehension, certainly. But something else, too. Something more extreme. Something that looked to Peaches very like fear.

  What could two powerful men like Ross and Todd have to fear here in the sanctuary of their own apartment?

  The answer came back fast as a bullet, hitting Peaches right between the eyes. Khordinsky. Yuri Khordinsky. The true alpha dog. The one all other men cowered before.

  The one, Peaches knew, that only a true bitch would be able to bring whimpering to his knees.

  ‘They’re on the roof,’ Todd said.

  ‘Take me to them,’ Peaches said. ‘Take me now.’

  There were roof terraces and there were New York roof terraces. And then there was Todd Lands’s New York roof terrace. The whole of the building top had been turned into a glorious English country garden, complete with a manicured lawn and trees and a honeysuckle archway leading to a grass pathway set between rose bushes. It was surrounded by buildings on three sides with the skyline of Manhattan across the park on the fourth. Peaches whistled, looking out at the Chrysler Building lit up in the distance.

  She followed Ross and Todd to a seating area where two wrought-iron benches covered with white cushions looked out over the whole of Central Park below. Two women stood up from the benches as Peaches came towards them, a redhead and a blonde.

  They weren’t high-profile actresses. Peaches didn’t recognize either of them. But she recognized a cautiousness about them both. They had to be pros. Just as she’d originally thought. And it made sense that Todd relied on the discretion of women from Peaches’ profession. What other kind of women could he be friends with?

  The redhead was older, shorter and was wearing tailored pants and a stylish orange shirt. Plenty of men would still pay for a slice of that pie, Peaches thought. Yep, whoever this woman was, she’d been in the game a long time, from the looks of things. It was obvious from the slash on her face: the sure sign of a gangster’s hand. This woman had crossed the wrong bad-ass. It always happened sooner or later.

  Had Khordinsky done it? Peaches wondered immediately. Was that what they were here to discuss?

  The younger girl, the blonde, was a knockout. Definitely a ten, Peaches thought, marking her instinctively against her criteria for the best jobs she could send her out to. She was wearing tight jeans with a skinny black T-shirt and high wedges, her lustrous blond hair tumbling down her back from beneath a Yankees baseball cap.

  ‘Peaches, this is Lady Emma Harvey,’ Ross said, stopping now in front of the two women and introducing the redhead.

  ‘Lady?’ Peaches asked. ‘Is that your street name?’

  ‘My what?’ the redhead asked, confused. Her accent was English. On the plummy side, Peaches thought.

  ‘Your working name, honey,’ Peaches said, thinking that they probably had different lingo over the pond. ‘Your pimp give it you?’

  Emma blushed deeply. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have a pimp.’

  Ross came to the rescue. ‘Er, Peaches, I didn’t explain. Emma really is a lady. Titled. From England.’

  Peaches raised her eyebrows. So Lady Emma Harvey was a real lady then. So what? For one thing, anyone could buy a title these days. That still didn’t mean that Peaches’ theory about these two being pros was wrong.

  And even if she was the real deal, there were probably plenty of hard-up English aristos. Women with expensive taste who’d tangle with the likes of Khordinsky to make a pile. Well, whatever this woman was, and whatever her connection to Khordinsky may be, Peaches wasn’t about to be intimidated by her.

  She’d met plenty of hard-nosed aristocratic types like Lady Emma before, who thought because of their education, bloodlines and big country houses the world owed them. She’d lost count of the men married to women like Emma who’d crossed her path, most of them fetishists, with a taste for the whip, and racially adventurous. They were desperate to escape the horsy types they’d grown up with. Women like Lady Emma Harvey, Peaches concluded, as Emma primly held out her hand for Peaches to shake. Or maybe even to kiss, with a curtsey, Peaches considered, feeling her hackles rise. Either way, she ignored it. She hadn’t come all this way to like these women – only to find out if they could be of use.

  ‘And, Emma, this is Peaches Gold,’ Ross said. ‘I told you about her.’

  What? Peaches wondered. What had Ross told Lady Emma Harvey about her? Did they know what she did for a living? Or her connection to Khordinsky?

  Emma let the hand she’d held up to greet Peaches drop. She smoothed her short red hair behind her ear and Peaches could tell instantly that she was suspicious, even disapproving, of Peaches. Of what she was or how she looked.

  She knew that Emma was assessing the bruises on Peaches’ own face. Was she wondering, too, whether they’d been caused by the same person? Despite herself, Peaches felt a link between them. They were both damaged women, holding it together. Being strong.

  And as Emma held her gaze, Peaches felt ashamed for having refused to shake her hand. But it was too late now and she didn’t want to appear soft by apologizing. Not until she’d got to the bottom of what was going on.

  ‘I’m Frankie,’ said the younger woman, breaking the awkward silence. Frankie didn’t wait for a repeat of what had happened between Peaches and Emma. She stepped forward and smiled widely, pumping Peaches’ hand up and down.

  ‘Frankie’s my current muse,’ Todd said. Frankie laughed and took off her baseball cap and dumped it on Todd’s head. That’s when Peaches recognized her from the magazine on the plane. A real friend of Todd’s then. Someone who’d been hanging out with him all this time. Someone he’d even confided his greatest secret to.

  If Peaches had got Frankie wrong, then maybe she’d got Emma wrong too.

  Peaches suddenly felt completely thrown. Usually, when she met women, she was the one in control, knowing the outcome she wanted and steering the proceedings her way. But now, as Todd picked up the champagne from the ice bucket on the table and poured more in each glass and a fresh one for Peaches, she saw that she wasn’t in charge. Not of these women. Not yet. If anything, she was the outsider.

  She watched Frankie sit next to Emma, and she reali
zed that theirs was a closed circle which she instinctively knew she couldn’t break. Not without an invitation.

  It soon became apparent that Frankie and Todd really were great friends, and Emma seemed comfortable in his company, suggesting that he contact Eduard, her designer friend, to restyle the apartment downstairs.

  ‘Bunny, Eduard’s wife, thought the world of Julian,’ Emma said. Peaches suddenly saw a depth of sorrow that made Emma seem much more vulnerable than she’d thought. ‘She sang at his birthday. I could call her, but . . .’ She trailed off, and Peaches noticed Frankie squeezing Emma’s shoulder. ‘I think she’s the same as everyone else. They’re embarrassed by what happened. They don’t know what to say about Julian.’

  Peaches was confused. Who the hell was Julian?

  Emma shook her head and dabbed her eyes. Then she cleared her throat and steadied herself. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized to Peaches.

  Peaches stared across the park at the twinkling lights and the lights of a plane cutting across the sky. Out of nowhere the image of Harry Rezler at the bar in Moscow popped into her head. She wondered where he was. Who he was with. Sometimes, it seemed like everyone else in the world had someone but her.

  ‘I think it’s best we leave the girls to it whilst we order in dinner,’ Ross said to Todd. ‘Marco at Cipriani’s said he could send over some of his wild mushroom ravioli.’

  Peaches watched him touch Todd’s arm. She was amazed how natural they looked together, at their level of familiarity and easy intimacy. She was jealous too. All this time she’d thought Ross was her best friend but now she could see that she’d only ever been second in his eyes.

  This was so goddamned weird, she thought as she watched them go. She felt as if the scales had fallen from her eyes. At last she was beginning to see the whole truth about her life, about her family . . . and now her friends too.

  But she couldn’t think about Ross right now, only why he’d brought her here. It was time to get down to business. Toughen up, girl, she told herself, feeling the other two women silently contemplating her.

  ‘So . . . let’s cut to the chase,’ she said, deciding to take control despite the apprehension she felt. ‘First of all, all of this – everything we say tonight – is absolutely confidential. Agreed?’

  Emma and Frankie glanced at each other. ‘Agreed,’ they said.

  ‘Right. Well, all I know about you two is that you have . . . ’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘. . . issues with Khordinsky. And that’s why I’ve flown here to New York. Because I’m on a mission to bring that scumbag to justice.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Emma.

  ‘And me,’ Frankie said.

  Something about the forcefulness of their responses had shocked them all. ‘OK,’ Peaches said slowly, with an intrigued smile. She sensed that beneath the starlit sky a bond of trust was being born. And for the first time since leaving Pushkin, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Frankie was reeling. It was only minutes, but it felt like hours since she’d sat down to talk to Peaches and Emma. Already, Frankie and Emma had laid their cards on the table. They’d both told Peaches what Khordinsky had done to them. How he’d set Frankie up with Todd, and how Emma suspected that it was Khordinsky who had engineered the collapse of Platinum Holdings and driven her husband to suicide . . . at the very least.

  But now the conversation had taken an even more macabre turn, and Frankie could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  ‘You went to Pushkin? That night?’ Frankie checked again with Peaches. ‘For Alex’s birthday?’

  She remembered the harbour master arresting her moments before she’d reached Pushkin on the stolen tender and that horrible night in the cell. But for a mere twist of fate she’d have met Peaches.

  Peaches Gold. The woman sitting here right now.

  She was more than a little intimidating. She oozed power and sexuality and a knowingness that Frankie had never seen in anyone before. She was wearing a simple wrap-around black dress and heels, but Frankie could tell she had the kind of body and sexy lustrous hair that most men would find hard to resist. Where Frankie came from, there were names for women like Peaches Gold. And none of them were nice.

  But this wasn’t back home, Frankie reminded herself. This was a different country and the rules she’d grown up with didn’t apply here. She didn’t even know if there were any rules any more, apart from those made up by people like Khordinsky. Rules that got him whatever he wanted, no matter how horrendous the cost to anyone else.

  That was why she was here, she told herself. Because of Khordinsky. Because of everything he’d done to her and Emma. And that was also why she wasn’t going to judge Peaches Gold, not before she got to know her. Not until she knew whether they really could, as Ross had suggested to Todd, help each other out.

  ‘Sure I was there. I organized the female entertainment,’ Peaches said.

  ‘Female entertainment?’

  ‘You know, hookers. Fun for the boys.’

  ‘Alex was with a hooker?’ Frankie asked. She forced herself to beat down the tears she felt rising. The thought of Alex being with someone else – anyone else – made her feel sick. Surely he wouldn’t pay for sex, would he? With a stranger?

  ‘Alex?’ Peaches said. ‘You mean Rodokov?’

  ‘Yes. He’s my . . . he and I were . . .’

  ‘Save your blushes, sister. I get the picture. But just for the record, he didn’t do anything. In fact, he refused.’

  ‘Refused?’ Frankie’s voice caught.

  ‘Yeah, honey,’ Peaches said. ‘Refused. Point blank. Two of my best girls. They’d been paid for too. But he acted like he already had someone else in mind.’ Peaches looked her up and down. ‘I’m guessing it was you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Frankie said. She wanted so desperately to believe that Alex still cared for her, still missed her, still couldn’t be with anyone else apart from her. But at the same time, Alex had been in the same room as Peaches and a whole load of hookers. Witnessing . . . what? Frankie’s mind flew over a dozen scenarios, none of which were probably accurate. The experience she’d shared with him in Marrakech, so intimate and private and pure, didn’t stack up with Khordinsky’s world at all.

  ‘Was Khordinsky there?’ Emma asked. ‘At the party?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peaches said. ‘That’s why I went there. To meet him . . .’ She looked first at Emma and then at Frankie. Her eyes were hard and determined. ‘. . . and to kill him.’

  Frankie felt the temperature plummet. She sat in silence with Emma as Peaches recalled the events on the night of Alex’s birthday. How she’d ensnared Khordinsky so that he was alone with her. How she’d attacked him and how he’d overpowered her. How she’d stabbed him in the neck with her stiletto. How he’d beaten her up and ordered her killed.

  And then she told them about how Alex had stopped Khordinsky killing her right at the last moment. How he and his bodyguard had taken her ashore. How Alex had taken out the gun and pointed it at her head.

  ‘He had a gun?’ Frankie asked, aghast. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t visualize it. The story Peaches had been telling them had been so vivid, but now it had stopped dead, like a reel of film had just snapped.

  Peaches smiled. Not cruelly, Frankie could see. But out of perplexity. ‘That surprise you?’ Peaches asked.

  ‘But Alex isn’t a violent man,’ Frankie protested.

  ‘Are you kidding me? He’s Khordinsky’s number two,’ Peaches said. ‘What? You think he hasn’t got blood on his hands?’

  There was something about the way Peaches asked this that left Frankie confused, as if Peaches wasn’t just being rhetorical but was unsure herself what kind of a man Alex truly was. It was as if she was challenging Frankie to prove her wrong.

  ‘He’s a businessman,’ she said without hesitating. ‘A gentleman. He’s tough, but he’s kind. He could never be cruel. Let alone do what you’re saying he would – execute someone on
a beach in the dark. In cold blood.’

  ‘Well, obviously not,’ Peaches said. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘So what did happen?’ Frankie asked.

  Peaches started talking again. The movie reel moved on. Alex firing into the sand. Him hissing in Peaches’ ear, telling her to play dead. Peaches lying there, listening to the sound of the engine fading into the night. Frozen on the sand. Too terrified to so much as twitch.

  Frankie put her hand over her mouth, relief bursting inside her. ‘So he didn’t try to kill you? He saved your life?’

  ‘Yes,’ Peaches said. ‘He tricked the bodyguard into thinking he’d done exactly what Khordinsky had told him to. What I can’t figure out is why. Unless what you say is true and that, against all the odds, Rodokov is a good guy.’

  ‘Of course it’s true,’ Frankie said. She looked between Emma and Peaches, desperate for their affirmation. But when she looked at them all she saw was the bruises on their faces: the swollen proof of the violence meted out by Alex’s associates and friends.

  Frankie took a deep breath, steadying herself. Her head was spinning. No matter what she wanted to believe, Alex had been there on the yacht when Khordinsky had done those terrible things to Peaches. To think that Alex had been a part of that . . . it made her feel breathless. What if her faith in him was mistaken? What if the Alex she knew and loved was all just an act? What if, beneath it all, he was Khordinsky’s hatchet man?

  But he’d saved Peaches. She had to hold on to that. Alex had let Peaches live.

  If only he were here. She could ask him herself. She knew she’d be able to look into those eyes and divine the truth.

  ‘But I’m confused,’ Emma said. ‘Why did you attack Khordinsky in the first place? And why did he want Alex to kill you?’

  Frankie forced her concerns about Alex to the back of her mind, in order to listen to Peaches’ answer.

  ‘When I met Khordinsky, I saw red. As soon as I looked at him, I thought about everything he’d done and . . .’

  ‘But why?’ Emma insisted. ‘Why do you hate him so much?’