‘Something of the sort,’ Nicole said with great sweetness. ‘And it’s payable on signature of the contract, as is the sum agreed on for the jewellery.’
‘Yeah, I assumed that,’ he drawled. ‘So let’s cut the crap. Tell me – since it’s not exactly a secret who’s handling this auction – why exactly Jamal thinks I should be talking to you and paying you a finder’s fee for each piece we take, rather than getting him to call up the auctioneers and cut a deal with them? Is my manager taking backhanders from his fuck buddy?’
Nicole smoothed her skirt down carefully, taking her time, looking down at her hands rather than Lil’ Biscuit’s face.
‘This is Ms Winter’s legacy,’ she said. ‘She’s going to use the considerable proceeds of the sale to endow her charities. But it isn’t just about money, and there are a great deal of interested buyers. She’s expressed to the auction house representatives that she wants them to only present her with truly respectable potential purchasers.’
Thank God for Silantra’s sex tape, she thought, seeing Biscuit shoot a swift glance at his oblivious wife. That’s what’s scoring us these huge finders’ fees – they genuinely do need Angel to vouch for them, to get over the amateur porn issue.
‘Okay,’ Biscuit said, nodding slowly in acknowledgement. ‘I get it.’
‘You’ll meet Angel, of course,’ Nicole assured him. She felt as if she had been holding her breath for minutes on end, and could finally let it out in a huge surge of relief. This was actually happening – the single biggest score of her life. ‘The idea is that you come to London in a month’s time, and Angel will introduce you and Silantra to the auction organizers. Don’t be concerned, it won’t be an interview process – it’ll be guaranteed by then that you’re accredited buyers, as long as it’s understood between us that a finder’s fee will apply to each piece. You’ll be able to look at the jewellery itself before you make your final decision—’
‘Will I be able to try it on?’ Silantra asked, perking up as if she were an animatronic robot programmed to come to life at the word ‘jewellery’.
‘Oh, of course!’ Nicole smiled, imagining the extra fees that would flood in as Silantra, in London, found more pieces that she absolutely had to have. There was no need for Nicole to stress the point that Angel’s endorsement of her and Lil’ Biscuit as buyers could be withdrawn at any time before the deal was done. It was implicit, and Biscuit was far too intelligent not to understand exactly how the situation stood.
Nicole’s entire body was now flooded with excitement, but she was careful to look as poised as if this were just one of many high-profile deals she organized on a daily basis.
‘Okay, it’s a deal,’ Lil’ Biscuit said with a smile. ‘And you better not fuck this up. You got that? When I agree a deal with someone, it goes through just like we said it would.’
He was still smiling, but his tone changed so completely on the last sentence that it took all Nicole’s self-control to avoid showing some reaction to it; Biscuit had slid seamlessly from affability into utter menace without altering his expression one iota. It was his most powerful negotiating technique. He let his opponent think that they had reached an agreement, that there was nothing more to be said – then, just as they relaxed in relief, he hit them with a verbal threat backed up by his impressive physical presence.
A gay man growing up in a violent and homophobic environment, even a closeted one, had to be extra tough to survive. Biscuit had hit the gym for hours on a daily basis, building himself a suit of body armour that was intimidating to anyone who might be an enemy. As so often happened with men, his youthful musculature had hardened into impressive solidity in his thirties. He weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, with nine per cent body fat, and regularly practised both Indonesian martial arts and t’ai chi. As he looked Nicole straight in the eye, still smiling, and repeated, ‘Yeah. You better not fuck up,’ she was suddenly acutely aware not only of his size and his strength, but his power.
‘I absolutely won’t,’ she said, bowing her head deferentially. She sensed that she was by no means the first person who had found herself feeling compelled to show Lil’ Biscuit an extra degree of respect. ‘You don’t just have to take my word for it,’ she added. ‘You have Vivienne Winter’s own grandson to back me up.’
‘And he better not fuck up either,’ Biscuit said, the smile, if anything, intensifying. ‘He could be the grandson of the King and Queen of England, and he still better not cross me in a business deal.’
Nicole met his stare calmly. She wasn’t intimidated, because she had no intention of doing anything nefarious this time around. Earlier this year she had faced down triad members, been interrogated by Hong Kong police and been confronted by the father of her triad lover’s wife, come to warn her that she had two days to leave Hong Kong for good. Lil’ Biscuit, tough though he was, could not compare to that level of intimidation. And in this situation, she was completely innocent of any wrongdoing – which certainly hadn’t been the case in Hong Kong. Her gaze was limpid, her conscience clear.
Silantra, reaching for her own glass of water and carefully adjusting the gold-embossed coaster so the monogrammed initials faced her, shot a look up at Nicole from under her free-range mink eyelash extensions. Even with Silantra’s irises concealed by blue-tinted contacts, Nicole read the message she was sending with a distinct frisson of surprise, followed almost instantly by a wash of pleasure.
‘I got a really tight filming schedule for the next month,’ Silantra said, seemingly apropos of nothing. ‘Mom and my sisters get in tonight from LA, and we’re shooting a lot of scenes about Shanté leaving her babydaddy for real this time.’
‘Is she really going to leave DuWayne?’ Nicole couldn’t help asking. No matter how much she knew the whole show was entirely scripted, she followed it as she would a soap opera.
Silantra’s beautiful shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of utter disinterest.
‘Who knows? Whatever,’ she said. ‘It’s Mom’s decision, and it’s Shanté’s season arc, not mine. Anyway, I’m like super-busy at the mo. But I was thinking, when we come over to London to, like, see the jewellery and everything, you’ll be there too, right? It’d be nice to, like . . .’ She teased the conclusion of this sentence. ‘Hang out,’ she finished.
Nicole hadn’t realized that Silantra liked girls as well as boys, but the glance Silantra sent her with these last words, together with the flicker of her tongue over her lower lip, could have no other interpretation. Silantra was coming on to her. Nicole slanted her eyes over at Lil’ Biscuit to check how she should respond to this; to her relief, he was looking positively benign.
‘I’d love to,’ Nicole said with enthusiasm that was quite unfeigned. Silantra was not only very attractive, but having viewed her sex tape, Nicole was aware that she was also flexible, enthusiastic and a generous bestower of her favours.
‘Well, how nice that you two girls are getting along!’ Biscuit drawled with the satisfied smile of a gay man who has just seen his wife efficiently arrange her own holiday fun, freeing him up to do the same for himself. ‘This could be the start of a beautiful friendship, right?’
Chapter Fourteen
London – one month later
‘Mr Biscuit! How lovely to see you again!’ Angel said delightedly, arms thrown wide. ‘Are we European? Do we kiss? Or shake hands? Or perform the American manly “one-and-a-hug”, where we do a half-embrace and then pat each other’s backs? I’m afraid I can’t do any of those complicated hand-bumping greetings, but you could teach me one, if you’d like?’ He ventured the most fleeting of winks, and murmured, ‘I’m sure there are quite a few things you could teach me.’
Nicole, standing beside him, nudged him sharply in the ribs. Angel always liked to push the boundaries; he never felt more alive than when he was dicing with danger. But he had kept his voice just low enough on this sally for his target to be able to overlook it, and the meeting Nicole had organized with Lil’ Biscuit an
d Silantra at Angel’s penthouse earlier that afternoon had gone swimmingly.
To Angel and Nicole’s great pleasure, Biscuit and Silantra had clearly spent a great deal of time poring over the beautiful sale catalogue Christine had produced. When Silantra pulled out her copy of Vivienne Winter: A Life in Jewels from her one-of-a-kind, custom-made Birkin bag, which had her own face painted on it by a famous Japanese artist, the catalogue had been so bristling with pink Post-it notes that Nicole had been hard put not to let out an audible sigh of happiness. Silantra’s wishlist comprised not only the chokers but two tiaras, several sets of earrings, three bracelets, and a parure consisting of a necklace featuring five cabochon emeralds, a huge emerald brooch that could also be worn set into a tiara or bracelet, and a pair of drop earrings.
The prospect of the finder’s fee awaiting him if he successfully convinced Christine to accept a bundled offer for all of these extremely expensive pieces had brought an exquisite smile to Angel’s face. Seeing it, Silantra had blinked those mink eyelashes and fixed him with a look of such naked appreciation that Angel had instantly fantasized about nailing the deal by nailing her.
‘Subject to her husband’s approval, of course,’ he had said to Nicole afterwards.
‘Excuse me,’ she had replied, ‘I already have a longstanding date with her, don’t forget!’
‘So? We love to share, don’t we? But do you think Mr Biscuit wants me for himself? I wouldn’t mind that at all. Do you think they share, too? As Joey said on Friends when Ross was torn between two women: “I have two words for you. Threesome.” Or foursome, in this case.’
‘I’m always up for some fun,’ Nicole said cautiously, ‘but they’d have to give very clear signals and initiate. We can’t risk anything messing up the deal.’
‘Hmm; I wonder if he’s a top or a bottom,’ Angel pondered. ‘Statistically, he’s more likely to be a bottom, of course. And I’m always up for anything, naturally! Did you think he was cruising me?’
‘I couldn’t tell,’ Nicole said frankly, ‘and that hardly ever happens. He plays his cards really close to his chest.’
‘And what a lovely big chest it is,’ Angel said approvingly. ‘No steroids or HGT for him, you can tell. Just home-grown American beefcake. Yum.’
‘Be very careful,’ Nicole warned. ‘Jamal told me Lil’ Biscuit once hung a music executive out of a window by his ankle. On the twentieth floor.’
‘This is the main difference between you and me, darling,’ Angel pointed out. ‘I’m a sociopath, and you’re not. I don’t get scared.’
‘Be extra careful, then,’ Nicole said, rolling her eyes, ‘because you don’t pick up the warning cues!’
Happily, this evening, at the launch party being held to celebrate the start of Tor’s expedition to the Andes, Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra were all smiles. They looked simply magnificent, like a cross between Hollywood and African royalty. Both Biscuit, in a floor-length white alpaca coat and tailored white silk suit, and Silantra, wearing a white jumpsuit with not much back and even less front, were bedecked in gold and diamonds from head to toe.
Inspired by the vintage photographs of Vivienne in the auction catalogue, Silantra’s hairstylist had been tasked with piling her Russian-sourced locks on the crown of her head and augmenting them with extra plaits, forming a pedestal around which a tiara could be pinned. The tiara had belonged to Greek royalty, which made it far less interesting to Silantra than the ones she was about to buy from a famous film star; Silantra had only the haziest idea that Greece was even a country.
Angel had welcomed the striking couple to the launch with great appreciation. Having kissed Silantra’s hand with a considerable flourish and a half-bow, causing her to let out a sigh of delight at his courtliness, Angel had turned to her husband and launched into the question of how he wished to be greeted by another man.
Lil’ Biscuit grinned in amusement at Angel’s sauciness.
‘I like the handshake,’ he pronounced, having considered for a moment. ‘It’s traditional, and we’re in Britain. We should be traditional.’
He extended one large, well-manicured hand to Angel, who took it carefully, as it was bristling with large and expensive rings. Just as Angel was about to let go, Biscuit’s second hand closed over Angel’s, engulfing it in a warm, firm cage as he manoeuvred the smaller man a little to the side, towards him.
‘There a VIP room here?’ he asked. ‘Or a private office? Somewhere we can have a word, just you and me?’
Angel’s blond eyebrows shot up. ‘Certainly!’ he said with unabashed cheerfulness. ‘That would be a positive pleasure, Mr Biscuit.’
‘You know it ain’t actually “Mr Biscuit”?’ the man in question asked, as he dropped Angel’s hand and followed him through the melee. The guests at this exclusive party were far too sophisticated to press for autographs or selfies, but they openly gawked at Lil’ Biscuit, who strolled through the crowd just like a visiting monarch, his coat hanging open, relishing the attention, the diamond-encrusted fob watch hanging from a gold necklace as thick as his thumb catching the light with every step he took.
The bouncer stationed by the cordoned-off VIP area was already jumping to unhook the velvet rope as Angel and Lil’ Biscuit approached.
‘Huge fan, mate,’ he said worshipfully as Biscuit passed him.
‘Thanks, man,’ Biscuit said with a nod, in the manner of a potentate acknowledging a lowly subject, his coat swishing like a cape as he took his rightful place in the VIP section. The launch was being held in the Rumpus Room bar of the newly renovated Mondrian Sea Containers Hotel, on the south bank of the Thames next to Blackfriars Bridge. The views over the river and its beautiful bridges were breathtaking, and there was an outside terrace from which they could be appreciated with a cigarette in hand.
The layout was open-plan, with huge, dramatic half-moon red leather banquettes, punctuated with crimson and purple velvet 1920s-style swivel armchairs to create intimate seating areas. A corner had been arbitrarily roped off to make a VIP area that had very little standing space. However, it was de rigueur at any celebrity party for there to be a section for the most A-list of the A-list guests to gather, no matter how cramped and awkward it was. Much as the VIPs might complain about being gathered in an area so small they could barely turn around, they would have been infinitely more annoyed by the lack of it.
Prince Toby, fourth in line to the British throne, his cousin Princess Sophie, and a couple of members of their entourage were sitting on one of the banquettes, giggling at some private joke. They looked up as Angel entered with Lil’ Biscuit, and both Toby and Sophie waved to Angel. He waved back, holding up his hand to indicate that he wouldn’t be joining them immediately; instead, he walked with Biscuit to a pair of armchairs in the far corner. Biscuit disposed himself on one of them, his silk suit gleaming under the display of glittering puffball lights hung overhead, their reflections in the huge panel of the glass roof above them doubling their effect.
‘What can I help you with, Mr Biscuit?’ Angel asked, hitching up the knees of his immaculately tailored Savile Row suit and taking a seat facing the entertainment mogul. ‘Do you mind me calling you that? I feel silly just saying “Biscuit”. And I can’t say “Lil”. It sounds like you’re a housemaid from Downton Abbey.’
‘I used to like that show,’ Lil’ Biscuit said meditatively. ‘But it kinda lost its way at the end. The plot stopped making sense. I watch it in reruns on mute,’ Biscuit added. ‘To see the costumes and the interiors. I wanna do a video based on it. I’m gonna be the Earl. Black Downton. Real high concept.’
Angel nodded encouragingly, quite aware that Lil’ Biscuit hadn’t requested a semi-private moment with him to chat about a British television show.
‘My friends call me James,’ Lil’ Biscuit said, seemingly on a tangent. ‘Cause that’s my name.’
He was surveying Angel carefully, his lids half-lowered over his dark eyes, his head tilted back at a casual angle. One hand played
with his fob watch, setting off facets of multicoloured light from the diamond setting as if he were trying to hypnotize Angel.
‘Let me guess,’ Angel said. ‘I’m not supposed to call you James.’
‘Damn right,’ Biscuit said with great cordiality. ‘You can keep calling me Mr Biscuit. It sounds cool in an English accent.’
‘Anything sounds cool in an English accent,’ Angel pointed out. ‘I could just sit here and say “bollocks” a lot, and you’d probably enjoy it.’
‘You got me there,’ Biscuit said, nodding. ‘I would. Maybe you can do that later.’
‘I’m beginning to feel a bit like your court jester,’ Angel said cheerfully. ‘I should have one of those things on sticks with bells I could wave as I caper around.’
‘The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true,’ Biscuit said, taking Angel completely by surprise. ‘Danny Kaye, The Court Jester. Great movie.’
He leaned forward, clearly having decided that it was time to get to the point.
‘It’s about my wife,’ he said, a swift turn of his head from side to side ensuring no one was close enough to hear their conversation; behind them was a glass wall with views of the rooftops behind the hotel. ‘She likes Nicole, so that’s all fine and dandy. But she likes you, too.’
‘How nice,’ Angel said demurely. ‘I find her very attractive, naturally.’
‘Yeah, I kinda got that vibe. You got a girlfriend, though. The auction chick. So, no pressure.’
Angel winked. ‘Oh, I can definitely work something out,’ he said. ‘Without Christine being aware of it, of course. She’s much too bourgeois for anything this . . . sophisticated. It must be obvious to you that the introduction fee you’re paying to Nicole and myself is a very hush-hush subject, not to be mentioned to Christine? She’s very conventional – takes her job terribly seriously. Any mention of it would compromise the whole deal.’
It was Biscuit’s turn to nod. ‘Goes without saying,’ he agreed.
Killer Diamonds Page 24
