Daughters of Fortune: A Novel

by Hyland, Tara

  He shook his head slightly. “No one.” He tossed the photograph onto the table, a deliberately dismissive gesture. But she wasn’t going to be put off that easily.

  “Are you sure?” Her eyes hadn’t left the print. Now she reached down, touching the edge of the picture, frowning. “She is very beautiful.”

  Inside, Lucien sighed. Merde. This was turning into hard work. But he showed none of his irritation. Instead, he took her hand—as much to stop her smudging the photograph as to create an intimacy between them—and raised it to his lips.

  “You are the beautiful one,” he said, staring straight in her eyes.

  The line was obvious, but it worked. The girl’s face relaxed into a smile.

  “Come back to bed?” she murmured.

  She didn’t need to ask twice. He gave the photograph of Caitlin one last glance and then let the girl lead him over to the bed.

  19

  _________

  Piers and Elizabeth were having dinner at Le Caprice. He had taken her there to celebrate her first month at Melville, but the evening wasn’t going quite as he’d imagined. Whenever he asked how she had been getting on in the strategy department, she avoided the question. He’d expected her to be enthusiastic about her new position, but instead she seemed so subdued.

  Finally, over coffee, she confessed how awful it had been.

  Piers was appalled when he heard. Elizabeth had always been his favorite. He hated to see her unhappy.

  “Do you want me to have a word with your father?” he offered. “I could ask him to talk to Cole. Or move you to another department, if you want.”

  “No,” she said, then, seeing the hurt look on his face, hastily added, “Thanks for offering. But I need to fight my own battles.” She forced a smile. “Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  By the time they finally left the restaurant two hours later, she seemed happier. He insisted on walking her the short distance to her flat.

  “We’ll have to make this a regular date now you’re in London,” he remarked, as they said their goodnights.

  She agreed that they would, and he went back to his car feeling good about himself. Seeing Elizabeth tonight reminded him how important he was to the family. He was an integral part of Melville, the glue that held them all together.

  Piers’s life revolved around being a Melville. It always had. His mother and brother had been everything to him, growing up. They were a family to be proud of. Rosalind was a beautiful and elusive woman, floating in and out of Aldringham in a cloud of expensive perfume, always dashing up to London, appearing in magazines and newspapers. When she was at Aldringham, it was to host elaborate parties with fascinating guests. Meanwhile William, ten years Piers’s senior, was inevitably a figure of awe and respect to the younger boy. But, with the premature death of Edward Melville when Piers was just five years old, he also became something of a father figure, too. It was William who taught Piers how to ride first a bike and then a horse, gave him swimming and skiing lessons. He was everything Piers aspired to and knew that he would never be.

  One of Piers’s earliest memories was accompanying Rosalind to Greycourt at age eight to watch William playing in the annual alumni versus students cricket match. It was a glorious summer’s day, but what Piers remembered most was the pride he felt when he saw William smashing the winning runs to finish with a grand six and leading his team to its first victory in a decade.

  “Aren’t you proud of your brother?” Rosalind had said to Piers, as William was awarded MVP of the match.

  And he had been able to answer, truthfully and wholeheartedly, “Yes.”

  In his young mind, being a Melville was the most important thing in the entire world. This belief had been reinforced by virtue of the fact that he’d grown up isolated from other children his age. Discovering early on that he was dyslexic, Rosalind had decided against sending him to the local prep school that William had attended and had him home-schooled instead. That meant that by the time he went off to Greycourt, age eleven, his only major interaction outside the family had been with his aging tutor.

  Needless to say, boarding school proved something of a shock. Although he was an intelligent, studious boy, socially he was clumsy. The other boys homed in on the weakness. His allowance was stolen; a rotting fish head left in his gym bag; his homework mysteriously misplaced by the monitors. With his slight frame, he couldn’t fight back. Instead, he cried himself to sleep at night, which only made the bullying even worse.

  The teachers, aware of his problems, intervened where necessary to make sure the other lads didn’t go too far, but privately they were disparaging of Piers.

  “He’s nothing like his older brother,” they would say, remembering William Melville’s effortless popularity, his academic and sporting prowess.

  Throughout his miserable time at Greycourt, Piers longed to be back at Aldringham with his family. He watched William going to work alongside their mother at Melville and couldn’t wait until he was old enough to join them.

  After three friendless years studying natural sciences at Cambridge, he finally got his wish and joined the family firm. Rosalind started him off at a low-level position in the finance department, where he made a slow but steady rise through the ranks to CFO. At last he was content.

  The one sadness in his life was that he had never married. He would have liked a wife, children. But it was not to be. While William had courted a succession of beautiful girls in his youth, Piers had always been uneasy around the opposite sex. It was the curse of that same social clumsiness which had plagued him at Greycourt. But he had come to terms with his single status, drew comfort from treating William’s family like his own. From the beginning he had welcomed Isabelle, and even though he was a little disappointed that William didn’t choose him as best man—Magnus got the job instead—he still threw himself into the wedding plans; and while he wasn’t officially named Elizabeth’s godfather, he had always made sure to look out for her.

  And Piers was content with his bachelor lifestyle. After all, why did he need a wife? Work and family, so seamlessly linked, occupied his time, and on the rare occasions he was alone, he was content to go for long walks or read. A housekeeper and cleaner came in on alternate days to help with the upkeep of his Richmond Hill townhouse. And for nights like tonight, when he was feeling a little lonely, there was always NW8.

  NW8 was a very private, private members’ club. Tucked away in a leafy side street near Lord’s Cricket Ground in a lavish Regency villa, it was frequented by celebrities, politicians, and royalty. Discretion was its watchword. There was currently a two-year waiting list for membership, and applications were strictly vetted. Visits were by appointment only, to ensure patrons didn’t bump into each other. Appointments themselves were made to an unlisted number, always answered by an impassive voice. Every member had a unique pincode, which meant no names were ever used over the phone.

  The ladies themselves were of the highest quality: stylish, cultured, intelligent, and well-versed in social etiquette. Payments were by bank transfer: thirty thousand up front for Platinum membership, plus fees starting at five thousand pounds for a four-hour lunch date.

  In his ten years of membership, Piers had rarely visited NW8’s premises, preferring instead to make use of its call-out service. He had always found it to be prompt and reliable. This time was no exception. He phoned from his car, and twenty minutes after he got home, the doorbell rang. As he answered it, he saw a sleek black Mercedes pulling away. A driver had dropped the girl off and would remain in the area in case of trouble.

  A pretty little blonde stood outside. Fresh-faced, innocent . . .

  “Come in,” Piers invited.

  The girl did as she was told. Once she was in the hallway, she looked at him quizzically.

  “Upstairs,” he directed. “Third floor, fourth door on the left.”

  She was new to the house, and new to him. They al
ways were. Some men liked to be visited by a regular woman, taking comfort in the familiar. Piers didn’t. NW8 knew this and much more. His preferences were noted down in a file and adhered to religiously. The girls were always natural blondes, of slight build, never older than eighteen. They were instructed to remove all makeup before arriving, and to wear something girlish and soft. Cotton was preferred, but certainly no heels, leather, or latex; colors should be pastels—black, red, or purple were to be avoided. The details were strict and specific, and the girls followed them to the letter. The requests might seem odd, but they’d heard stranger.

  Upstairs, Piers sat on the bed and watched as the girl unbuttoned her coat and removed the pashmina that hid her face.

  “Is everything to your liking?” she asked, still outwardly demure.

  Piers wet his lips. “Perfect.”

  And, with that, his loneliness magically disappeared.

  Two hundred and fifty miles north of London, Amber Melville was far from lonely. After all, she had her new best friend, Eva.

  After a whole week of sharing a room, Eva and Amber were inseparable. And tonight they were on a mission: to escape Beaumont Manor and have themselves some fun. Amber suspected getting out wasn’t going to be easy. The campus had a high wall with locked gates at all entrances. Closed-circuit TV covered every inch of the grounds, and 300 outside lights came on between sunset and sunrise.

  But Eva was confident.

  “Eet looks more hardcore than it is,” she said breezily, flipping her heavy black hair back from her carefully made-up face. She favored hot pink spandex and heavy gold jewelry—like all Latino gatinhas. She wiggled her hips in the mirror, an expert samba move. “They do not care if we get out, as long as they do not know about eet.”

  Lights went out at ten. At ten-fifteen, the girls were out of the door. Stilettos in hand, they tiptoed along the corridor and down the fire escape. Slipping a twenty-pound note to one of the security guards ensured them an escort to the side gate. From the way Eva winked at him, Amber suspected she had slipped him a lot more.

  As he closed the gate behind them, Amber’s heart was beating hard.

  “How do we get back in?” she whispered to Eva.

  Eva tossed her head. “Don’t worry,” she said, pulling her faux fur coat closed around her skimpy outfit. “Eet’s all sorted. Saca?”

  She grabbed Amber’s hand and pulled her down the hill.

  That first Friday was one of the best nights of Amber’s life. Once they reached Whitby, they asked some locals where everyone went for fun. Within ten minutes they were queuing up outside a dingy venue called Cindy’s, one of a handful of nightclubs in town. They flashed their fake IDs at the bouncer, deposited their coats in the coat check, and strutted into the bar. With Amber’s pretty face and Eva’s silicon-enhanced breasts, they had no trouble attracting attention, in the form of a group of boys from Chatsworth, the local boys’ boarding school that stood half a mile away from Beaumont Manor.

  The girls perched on bar stools while the guys circled around plying them with vodka and orange juice. With the ratio of male to female clearly in their favor, Amber and Eva sat back and let the boys compete for their attention.

  As the night wore on, it became apparent that both girls were focusing on the best-looking of the bunch, Jed. But once Amber realized he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off Eva’s chest, she switched her interest to her second choice—Lewis. With the girls obviously having picked out their favorites, the rejected boys slunk off, resolving to try their luck with some of the inebriated locals instead.

  It was just past midnight when Jed leaned over to Eva. “Do you two want to come back to our room for a bit? We’ve got some CDs you could listen to.”

  Eva sprang off the stool. “For sure,” she said, without bothering to consult Amber. “Let’s go.”

  Jed and Eva led the way back up the hill, their arms wrapped around each other, giggling and whispering. They were old pros at this. Amber and Lewis, both less experienced, trailed silently behind them, both increasingly aware of the lack of physical contact between them. But the vodka was beginning to affect Amber. She’d watched the way Eva had acted with Jed, casually letting her breasts brush against him, kicking her shoe off so he was forced to slip it back on her bare foot. Before, it had seemed a little obvious. But now Amber saw it as the height of sophistication. She shivered theatrically, making sure Lewis noticed.

  “Are you cold?” he asked unnecessarily.

  “Yes,” she said, sticking out her lower lip in the kind of sexy pout she practiced in front of the mirror. Tentatively he reached out and put his arm around her.

  “Is that better?”

  She smiled up at him from under lowered lashes and nodded. He grinned back.

  Half an hour later, Amber was in Lewis’s bed. Eva was across the room in Jed’s. With the 2 a.m. deadline looming, they hadn’t wasted much time after they’d gotten there. Amber could hear moans and furtive rolling around from Eva and Jed. She wondered briefly if they were doing “it.” She didn’t think so. There was something slightly sleazy about all of them going at it in the same room, although the alcohol had done a good job of easing her inhibitions.

  She allowed Lewis to pretty much lead the way. At first he just lay on top of her, kissing her slowly. He turned out to be pretty decent at it, not too much tongue. When he started to unzip her dress and unhook her bra, she didn’t object. After everything Eva had told her, she was eager to find out what happened next. Her small breasts kept him occupied for a little while. And she was happy, too. She liked the way he sucked on them, rolling her nipples between his fingers.

  He slipped one hand under the elastic of her panties. She knew what was supposed to happen next. In the privacy of their room, Eva had introduced her to the delights of masturbation. But, while Amber had enjoyed it very much then, it was somewhat less exciting with Lewis. After a few half-hearted rubs, he seemed to lose interest. So she brushed his hands away and maneuvered him over onto his back. He needed no further encouragement. He eased out of his trousers, hesitated, and then, sensing no objection, took his boxer shorts off, too. She knelt over him, taking hold of his hard-on and caressing him in the way Eva had told her to. She couldn’t have been doing it right though, because after a while he grabbed her hand, covering it with his, and started rubbing the shaft up and down faster and faster. As they kept on going, he started to groan. Finally, she felt him stiffen, and then a long shudder ran through him. The next second a hot, sticky substance pumped out of him and hit her in the face.

  She sat there for a moment, unsure what to do. She felt the wetness drip down onto her bare breasts and wrinkled her nose. Lewis reached across to his bedside table and found a box of tissues. He handed her a couple, and they mopped themselves up in embarrassed silence. Thankfully, it was time to go.

  “That was the money shot,” Eva told her later, when they were safely in bed at Beaumont Manor.

  Amber wasn’t sure if she wanted to do that again. Some of the stuff had got caught in her hair, and strands had dried together in clumps.

  “And what about you?” Eva asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Did you come?”

  Amber shook her head. Definitely not.

  “Next time, make sure you get yours first,” Eva said firmly. “Remember—they’re never interested after they’ve had theirs.”

  20

  _________

  It was Alain who first told Caitlin that her photograph was going to be featured in Lucien Duval’s new exhibition.

  “I guess this is his latest attempt to woo you,” he said wryly.

  Caitlin concentrated on stacking up the glasses, pretending not to understand the comment. But in fact she was all too aware that Lucien was pursuing her. He had made no secret of it. Since that night at La Flèche d’Or, he had asked her out—once, twice, three times now. So far she’d said no, that she was too busy. It didn’t seem to be putting him off.

>   Going out with him was a bad idea—Caitlin didn’t need anyone to tell her that. But they went right ahead and told her anyway.

  “Stay away from him, Caitlin,” Véronique warned. After dating Jules for two months, she was a reformed person. “There are other guys out there. Ones who won’t break your heart.”

  Alain was equally vocal in letting her know his concerns. He’d spent the past year encouraging her to find a boyfriend—but had never envisioned the urbane Lucien Duval in the role.

  “Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I like the guy very much. But he isn’t right for you.”

  Caitlin wasn’t about to argue. Lucien was everything she had sworn off: darkly, dangerously good-looking, and with a reputation to match. Unfortunately, he was also getting under her skin. She thought about him all the time. While her head might still be saying no to him, her heart seemed to have other ideas.

  But this time he was way off base. If he thought putting her photograph in an exhibition was going to win her over, then he didn’t know her very well. The thought of all those people staring at her, thinking that she had agreed to be on public display like that . . .

  “I can’t think of anything worse,” she told him a few days later.

  Lucien regarded her for a long moment. He would have happily staked a year’s wages that any other girl in the café would have killed to be the subject of one of his photographs. But not Caitlin. She was different. Like the way she kept turning him down whenever he asked her out. Lucien didn’t want to sound conceited, but that never happened to him. Never. And it had only made him more determined to win her over. He was frankly intrigued by this very reserved, extremely talented girl. And it took a lot to arouse his interest these days.

  “Don’t refuse me outright, chérie,” he said now. “Come down to the exhibition—see the photograph for yourself. And if you still do not like it, then I will take it down.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re just saying that to get me to agree.”