An unexpected thought popped into her head, and she had to bite back a smile. Of course she could be in control of this auction. But only if she was prepared to pay anything for the White Empress, top any bid. “I will,” she said under her breath, “I’ll outbid everybody here.” Somehow this idea was liberating, and she felt the tension easing out of her. If she was prepared to pay any price, then she was not only in control already, she already owned the diamond. So invigorating and exciting was this possibility, Stevie clamped her mouth shut and looked at the catalogue. She was afraid that she might blurt out her thoughts to Matt. A still tongue and a wise head, she heard Ralph’s voice saying in the far recesses of her mind.
Focusing in on the White Empress again, Stevie asked herself what she might conceivably have to pay for it, given her decision to outbid everyone present. Twelve, thirteen, even fourteen million? Possibly. Maybe more. She wasn’t sure. The auction could go any which way; she knew this only too well. The reserve price, the presale price, was six million. In a way this did not mean very much. As Matt had just pointed out to her, the auction was jammed with many prominent international jewelers as well as a number of multimillionaires and billionaires whom she had recognized instantly. If they all bid, the price would be pushed so high, it would be ludicrous.
André came back to his seat and squeezed her hand. “Gilberto thinks a lot of people are merely here for the excitement, for the fun of it. Do not worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worried, André darling,” she said, and she sounded positively nonchalant. So much so that both André and Matt looked at her alertly, then glanced at each other.
Suddenly the auctioneer was stepping up to the podium.
Instantly the room fell silent.
And so it began. The auction for the White Empress.
The lights dimmed and the color slides of the diamond suspended on its superb Harry Winston necklace flashed onto the screen that stood on the left of the podium. The auctioneer made his statement, giving all the details of the great diamond and its origins. The slide show finished, the lights went up, and the auctioneer started the bids rolling.
Looking out into the crowded room, he said with undisguised enthusiasm, “I’ll take the opening bid to my right. Two million dollars.” His eyes swiveled to the other side of the room. “Two million two hundred and fifty thousand from the center left. Two million five hundred thousand from the back of the room.”
After the opening bid of two million, the price was rising in increments of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. After years of attending auctions all over the world, Stevie was aware that the amount could change at the will of the auctioneer. It was he who made the decisions.
Finally she raised her paddle. The auctioneer acknowledged this with the merest flicker of an eyelash. “Three million from the center. Three million two hundred fifty thousand to my left. Three million five hundred thousand to the left front. Three million seven hundred fifty thousand at the back. Do I hear four million?”
Once more Stevie raised her paddle, bringing the price up to the desired four. It went on climbing after this, as others raised their paddles and made their bids. The pace was rapid, the excitement mounting.
André and Matt were on the edges of their seats, as was she. Her adrenaline was pumping hard when she plunged in once more and made her bid for five million. Yet again it did not end there, as she had known it wouldn’t; the reserve price had to be met. The person who had outbid her was outbid several times by others wanting to claim the White Empress as their own.
The auction was moving at a fast and furious pace. The tension in the room was a most viable thing, and Stevie felt as though she could reach out, touch it, take it in her hand. Just as she was determined to take the diamond in her hand—for Jardine’s.
Another bid came in, and another, and then another, and another after that, until the price had escalated even higher, had gone well over the presale figure of six million.
Stevie was relaxed, sat staring straight ahead, holding her paddle in her lap, making no moves at all. I must wait now, she told herself. Drop back so that the auctioneer will wonder about me, wonder if I’m dropping out altogether. She kept a poker face, but inside she was smiling.
André, watching her closely, knew what she was doing. She was biding her time, not wanting to contribute to the acceleration of the price.
Twenty minutes later Stevie sat up straighter, her attention fully directed on the auctioneer, all of her senses alerted. The bidding had reached eight million five hundred thousand even without her participation. And then it had slowed. Several people had resisted, had not bid, and to all intents and purposes they had now dropped out. Stevie waited for the auctioneer to change the amount of the increments, which he did almost immediately. He lowered them to one hundred thousand dollars.
Now that this had happened, the bidding started to move again, although not quite as rapidly or as intensely as before. The price rose accordingly as ten bids came in, bringing the price up to nine million eight hundred thousand dollars. And then once more it slowed, and, somewhat unexpectedly, came finally to a halt.
“Nine million eight hundred thousand,” the auctioneer repeated, his voice rising slightly. “Do I hear nine million nine?”
Stephanie raised her paddle.
“Nine million nine hundred thousand in the center! I want to hear ten million. Ten million dollars for the White Empress.”
A bid came from somewhere in the room, and she heard the auctioneer cry, “Ten million from the front. Ten million! Ten-million-one, am I getting an offer of ten million one hundred thousand for this magnificent diamond?”
To Stevie the silence in the room seemed to magnify. It became so hushed, a pin dropping would have sounded like a crash. Every person sat on the edge of his or her seat, their attention focused on the auctioneer.
Stevie held her breath.
The auctioneer repeated himself. “Do I hear ten million one? Surely I do.” There was a brief pause; not one paddle was raised.
“Ten million one hundred thousand. Do I have that offer?” The auctioneer cleared his throat. “Ten million, then, to the bidder at the front, unless I hear ten million one hundred thousand.”
André touched her arm.
Stevie brought her paddle up.
“Ten million one hundred thousand!” cried the auctioneer, sounding triumphant, full of jubilance.
Stevie’s heart was pounding against her rib cage and her mouth was dry like sandpaper. She sat as though turned to stone, again hardly daring to breathe, waiting for the next bid, for someone to top her. But no one did. The stone was hers. For a moment it didn’t seem possible.
“Ten million one hundred thousand dollars it is. Sold to the lady in the center.”
Everyone in the room brought their eyes to her. Someone began to applaud. Others joined in. The applause became louder. A woman cried, “Bravo! Bravo!”
André hugged her to him and kissed her cheek. And so did Matt, who exclaimed, “You’re as cold as ice.”
Stevie shook her head. “No, I’m fine, really I am, Matt.”
“I would say you are indeed fine,” André murmured against her ear, smiling broadly. “As fine as you’ll ever be, Stephanie. And when you are ready to leave, I shall take you to dinner at La Grenouille.”
They came to speak to her then, streaming across the room, people she knew, clients and friends, and colleagues from the jewelry business. And they brought their congratulations and they wished her well.
13
STEVIE SAT IN HER OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR OF THE Jardine building on Fifth Avenue in the fifties.
It was Tuesday morning, a few days after the auction at Sotheby’s the week before, and the White Empress had just been delivered a short while ago. The previous Friday the paperwork had been completed and the money had been wired bank to bank.
And so here it was at last, one of the most important stones in the world, and it belonged to her, or, rather, to
Jardine’s.
Stevie now lifted the necklace out of the dark blue leather Harry Winston jewelry case and held it up in front of her. The huge pear-shaped diamond was 128.25 carats with fifty-eight facets on the crown and pavilion and eighty-five additional facets around the girdle. The diamond threw off a myriad of prisms as it blazed in the sunlight pouring in through the window. The stone was D-flawless and therefore perfect, and it was so blindingly white, so pure, it was breathtaking.
It is magnificent, heartstopping in its beauty, she thought, examining it very closely, appreciating its perfection. The stone hung on a single-strand necklace composed of sixty-eight round and pear-shaped diamonds, and the whole thing was a spectacular piece of jewelry.
On the spur of the moment, Stevie rose and went across to the antique French gilt mirror hanging on the wall of her office and held the necklace against her black dress. It was stunning. And she could not help wondering, in an abstract way, who would end up wearing it one day, when she finally came to sell it.
Walking back to the antique Louis XV bureau plat near the window, she sat down and held the necklace up toward the light again, admiring the way its facets threw off a brilliant rainbow sparkle. Then she glanced up with a start as the door burst open unexpectedly, and her son Nigel marched in. Stevie was taken aback, so startled she almost dropped the necklace. It took all of her self-possession to keep her face completely neutral.
“Nigel! This is a surprise!” she exclaimed, and placed the necklace in the jewelry case. Rising, she took a tentative step toward him, intending to greet him, as always full of warmth and love for her firstborn, despite her growing suspicion of his duplicity.
“Hello, Mother,” he said coldly, and immediately sat down in a chair, making it perfectly obvious that he wanted no displays of affection from her.
This gave Stevie no alternative but to sit down herself, which she did.
Glancing at the necklace on her desk, Nigel said in a scathing voice, “Drooling, I see.”
Annoyed though she was with his tone and superior manner, she ignored both. “I didn’t know you were coming to New York. When did you get in?”
“Last night.”
“Oh.” There was a slight pause on her part, and then she said, “I wish you’d let me know beforehand. I could have planned something…for us all to get together.”
A brow lifted sardonically, but he said nothing.
She said, “You could have seen Chloe and Miles.”
He draped himself in the chair, looking immensely bored, and she felt compelled to add, “Wouldn’t you like to see your brother and sister?”
“Not particularly.”
Stevie leaned back, gazing at him, filling with dismay at his manner and at his attitude. He had behaved somewhat in the same rude and churlish way when she had last been in London, and it puzzled her. After a moment, she said, “What are you doing in New York?”
Nigel hesitated, but only fractionally. “The Sultan of Kandrea wants to see me. About some stones. And since he cannot come to London at the moment, I came here.”
“Is he in New York or Los Angeles?”
“New York.”
“We could easily have handled it ourselves if you’d informed us. In fact, I would have been quite happy to see the sultan myself. There was really no need for you to fly all this way, Nigel.”
“But he doesn’t want to deal with you, Mother. He prefers to do business with me.”
“That’s something of a departure, since he and I have been doing business for years. Perhaps it isn’t so surprising, now that I think about it. The sultan does have a reputation for being unpredictable. And fickle. Be alerted to those traits, Nigel.”
“I can make my own judgments, Mother. I’m no longer a snot-nosed boy in short pants.”
Biting back the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, she said, “Quite,” gave him a slight smile and asked, “What kind of stones is the sultan looking for?”
“I don’t know yet. I have an appointment to see him later.”
“And how long are you staying in New York?”
“I’m either leaving tonight on the evening flight or on tomorrow’s Concorde.”
“We have some really spectacular stones available, and some magnificent—”
“The sultan certainly wouldn’t be interested in that,” he interrupted peremptorily, nodding his head at the White Empress, his expression disdainful.
“That’s not for sale!” she shot back, and closed the lid of the jewelry case with a small thud. “But certainly it’s big enough for him. He has always favored big diamonds, and I’m positive he still does.”
“You paid far too much for that stone, Mother. A bad buy.”
“No, it wasn’t, Nigel. If and when I do decide to sell it, I will make a very good profit. I’ve already had two offers for it since the auction, and I took delivery of it myself only half an hour ago. If I’m not careful, it’ll be whisked out of here before I can even blink. Quite aside from those offers, my purchasing the White Empress has generated enormous publicity. Jardine’s acquisition of the stone has been reported in every newspaper in the world.”
“I wouldn’t boast about that kind of vulgar publicity if I were you, Mother.”
“Not vulgar publicity, Nigel. Good publicity.”
“Jardine’s doesn’t need publicity of any kind,” he snapped in his most superior voice, “at least, the London branch doesn’t.”
“Touché. But you’re quite wrong, Nigel. We need good publicity on both sides of the Atlantic. We’ve a lot of competition these days, and we’ve got to sell ourselves as aggressively as any other jewelry company. That’s the way it is in the nineties. Ask any spin doctor.”
“Really, Mother, you begin to sound more American every day.”
“I am an American, Nigel, and you are half American. Or had you forgotten that?”
“You go too far, Mother.”
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by this, but choosing not to be goaded into taking the bait, she ignored his derisive comment, continuing evenly. “As for the White Empress, it was not only a good buy, but a bargain at the price.”
“Grandfather doesn’t think so. He also says you paid too much.”
“Bruce said that?” she exclaimed incredulously, and then started to laugh. “Did he really say that?”
“Yes, he did,” Nigel answered. “He says you have always paid too much for stones, especially diamonds.”
“And when did I start doing this? Did he tell you that?”
Nigel inclined his head and gave her a defiant stare. “When you opened the Fifth Avenue store.”
“What a curious thing for him to say when Jardine’s in New York is actually making a huge profit. Do you think that Bruce has gone a bit senile?”
“Certainly not, Mother.”
“And when did you last see him?”
“Yesterday. Before I left. He came into the London store. He’s been coming in quite a lot lately.”
“How interesting.” Stevie rose, stood leaning against the bureau plat, her shrewd eyes leveled steadily on her son. “We have a new turn of events, so it seems. When I was in London a few weeks ago, your grandfather said he did not propose to come to the store anymore.”
“Perhaps he changed his mind.”
“Whether he did or not is quite beside the point. I run Jardine’s in London, as well as here, and Bruce’s opinion about what I pay for stones doesn’t particularly interest me. Nor does anyone else’s opinion, for that matter. But getting back to your grandfather, he has no power. He retired long ago. And his title of chairman is simply a courtesy—” She paused to let her words sink in before adding, “A courtesy on my part.”
Nigel stared at her, his expression hostile, but he knew better than to make any kind of adverse remark.
Returning his stare with one equally as cold, Stevie couldn’t help thinking what a good-looking young man he was at twenty-nine, with his bright blue eyes set wide a
part, aquiline features, and dark blond hair. And he was tall, well dressed, elegant. What a pity it was his personality did not match his pleasant and most appealing looks.
Nigel was the first to grow uncomfortable, to blink and look away from her icy gray-green eyes, her appraising gaze. He jumped up from the chair, edged toward the door. “I’d better be going,” he muttered, and strode across the room, then paused in the doorway. “Good-bye, Mother.”
“Will I see you again before you go back to London, Nigel?” she asked quickly, and cursed herself under her breath for her weakness, for suddenly being his mother rather than his boss.
“I don’t think so. I want to catch the night flight if I can.”
“I understand. Anyway, I’ll be in London in about ten days.”
“You’re coming for Christmas?”
“Yes. Chloe and I are leaving on the twentieth.”
He nodded, opened the door.
“Give my love to Tamara, and kiss the children.”
“Yes,” he said, and was gone, slipping out of her office without a backward glance, closing the door softly behind him.
Stevie remained standing, staring at the door, a look of total bafflement on her face. She understood him less and less. It suddenly struck her that he had not told her why he had visited Jardine’s that morning on his extremely quick trip to New York. Perhaps he didn’t have a reason, had just stopped by out of habit. Or maybe he was curious to see what was going on in the store. He might even have wanted to get a glimpse of the White Empress despite his disparaging attitude about it. Or had he come in intentionally to taunt her, to pick a fight? She did not know.
Certainly he had not come in to wish her happy birthday, which is what she originally had thought when he had first burst in on her, but he had soon disabused her of that idea with his contentious manner and obvious desire to be combative. He hadn’t even mentioned her birthday, in fact.
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