Sparkles

Sophie gasped; she flung her head back and clutched at Hugh; waves of pleasure rocked through her. She couldn’t see. . . . She felt dizzy . . . it was perfect. . . .

She blushed. “Something like that.Yes. And knowing you’re all mine now, and you’ll stay mine.”

“Well, I will admit that it is rather special,” Hugh said. He breathed in, slowing his racing heart. “That was a fairly record day.” He pulled Sophie to him, and kissed her again, tasting the salt of perspiration on her lips; she was beautifully flushed, and her skin was mottled.

Gregoire Lazard smiled lazily. Finally, it looked like things might be going his way. “And you can do it in person, my dear Peter. She actually deigned to show up in the building this evening. She’s been making calls from her office for the last twenty minutes.”

“We all know you’re not the first guy to sit in this office and think that.” Lazard laughed, coarsely.

Stockton didn’t really care that Judy Dean had been an ally; she was as partisan as anybody else. Besides, his last two firings—Hugh and Tom—hadn’t gone exactly to plan. He was a bully, and throwing his weight at the little people always made him feel big.

He wanted to see that hard-as-nails little bitch crumple. He’d let her know her secret was coming out, too. So she couldn’t just flip him off and run home to the playboy prince. Judy Dean was finished, and he wanted to be there when it happened. . . .

It couldn’t just have happened a third time, could it? He thought Judy Dean was wedded to this job.

“You heard.” Judy turned up her pert nose. “And while you’re at it, stop eating. Those rolls of flab are just gross.”

“Don’t get excited, Pete, you’re obese. You’ll probably have a heart attack,” Judy said in a voice of mock concern. “And don’t wave your hands at me, nobody wants to see the sweat patches under your arms.”

“Shut the fuck up! And you, you goddamned bitch. You went with the father and the son. And we’re going to announce it all over national TV.”

Judy shrugged. “Who cares? At least I don’t have to pay people to fuck me, Pete. Goodbye, Gregoire; you’re the world’s worst executive and a total waste of skin, but at least you don’t stink like Pete. Adieu, losers!”

Later that night, Stockton sat in his suite at the Crillon and wondered where it had all gone wrong. He was homesick. His dream had tanked. Montfort, that bastard, was printing money and Mayberry’s stock was sliding down the drain. He wanted to dump his own considerable portfolio, but after Enron, those busybodies on Capitol Hill had put a stop to corporate officers selling. . . .

It was possible. Jewellry was a nebulous business. You could forget that. It was about design value, like a fashion house or a perfume. Apart from the actual stock of gems, if House Massot, and worse, Mayberry, lost their cachet—more fucking French—then the company was worthless. There was no “there” there, as they say.

He wished that Sophie bitch hadn’t poached his lead designers. That was dumb. He should have wrapped them up in a contract so tight they could never get out. Ruin them if they tried to double-cross him.

He gazed around at the sumptuous suite in the Crillon, with his balcony facing place de la Concord. Shit . . . if he lost his money ... What wasn’t in Mayberry stock?

There’d be no more hotels like this. No more limos. No more Claudia—she’d be out the door faster than a hooker after she got paid. Not that he loved her, but she was kind of familiar.

Tom was unfazed. “One that will make you very rich and rid you of the headache of House Massot.”

Pete stared at the Massot kid. And he didn’t like what he saw. How was it possible the spoilt, petulant little brat he’d gulled into doing the merger looked like this? There was, unmistakably, a young man in front of him, not a boy. He carried himself differently; there was a seriousness to his tone, and determination in his eyes.

Stockton knew it instantly. Whatever his other faults, he had a sharp appreciation of danger. And Massot spelled trouble.

“Let’s hear this deal you got,” he said. He tried to sound hard, but he worried that Massot could sense his back was against the wall, that he was a cornered animal.

“Not all of it, just a controlling stake. Mayberry and Massot aren’t the fit you thought they’d be.”

“I’ll be blunt. The deal has been disastrous for you, me, and the stockholders. I’ve lost my father’s company, you’ve ruined your stock price—I’m sure your board’s about to fire you—and there are senior citizens out there who are seeing their retirement fund evaporate.”

“You need to pull something out of the fire. Announce that you’ll divest yourself of Massot, sell it to me. Then quit Mayberry. I’ll pay you a separate deal, on the side.”

Massot nodded. “A separate deal between you and me. Private payment for services rendered.” His dark eyes swept across the American. “I’m sure you find it distasteful to be bound to Mayberry for your paycheck. Sell Massot to me before it goes bankrupt, and I’ll reward you in the way you deserve.”

Stockton thought about it for half a second. “Sounds good. I hate this fucking racket.” He stretched, sighed. “I’ll want six million euros or no deal.”

Tom Massot smiled coldly. “You’re not in a position to argue. I am going to form a company, Bagatelle Incorporated, registered in Switzerland. It will have assets of cash, mostly. I will issue you three million shares. There will be no restriction on your selling them, which you can do immediately. Bagatelle will have a value of ten million euros in ten million shares.”

Stockton closed his eyes; an immense sense of relief washed over him. Of course, this was the end of his little scheme with Lazard. No more dragging the kid’s name through the mud. But who the fuck cared about that, he was going to make about 3.5 U.S. His Mayberry stock might even improve once he dumped the Massot nightmare. Let this punk try to rescue it without the staff and the designers.

“I’ll form the company tomorrow; you’ll sell the share block to me at eleven a.m., at which time you will receive your shares.”

“I’ll say this for you, you don’t take nothing personal,” Stockton mumbled. “I figured you’d get all snotty about losing control in the first place, but I guess you know business is business.”

“Ohhhh.” Stockton smirked. Wow. Was he actually about to put one over on somebody? Sure looked that way. “But it’s an accurate term. You didn’t know, kid, I guess, huh?”

For once, Pete got the satisfaction he was hoping for. Massot’s face changed colour. He paled, then flushed a dark red. Rage? Shame? A bit of both.

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” he said laconically. “Ask around if you don’t buy it. Anybody at Massot will tell you. It was an open secret, pretty much. Pierre bought her her apartment; she was his main broad for like six years.”

“No wonder your mom didn’t like her,” he reflected. “Wife and girlfriend together in the same office, everybody knowing, and then Judy hooks up with you? Course, it wasn’t like she was your dad’s only lay. He was wildcatting with a bunch of other chicks.” Stockton winked. “Aren’t we all, though, right? Guess I did you a favour in slinging her out on her ass—”

“Never speak of my father or mother in my presence again. And never mention Miss Dean again, either. Or I’ll come after you. Now, you’ve got a choice. Sell me the stock tomorrow at eleven a.m. sharp—the documents will be faxed to you by ten. Or sit back as Massot plunges into liquidation and you are ruined.”

Judy tried to hurry home. She was a fast driver, but the traffic was shocking; seven o’clock, and still almost gridlock in the city center. Her painted nails drummed on the wheel. Damn it! She wanted to get home to Pierre. . . .

Divorce, would there be a divorce? Surely there must be. And then, she’d get hers. Finally—Pierre, her love . . .

He didn’t even care that she’d slept with his son. Of course, she’d have to call Tom . . . finesse that a bit.

Not for want of trying. No contraception and sex on her most fertile days, but nothing. Every month she tested, every month, negative.

No, what if he told Pierre? That his woman had been carrying his own grandchild? Of course, Pierre said he wasn’t bourgeois, wasn’t shockable. But that might just do it. . . .

Judy’d need to get Tom off her back. Better to get it over with, to crawl, suck up. To him and that witch Katherine. . . .

If she was going to be Mrs. Pierre Massot, finally, she’d better start mending her fences. Tom wouldn’t be so hard. He was soft inside, not like his dad. And Sophie, she was in love with Hugh Montfort now. She’d be glad if Judy solved the problem of the returning husband, no?

Judy smiled, she was halfway to convincing herself that everything was going to be all right. Now if she could only get the fuck home!

This was crazy. She stuck her head out of her window to see what the problem was. Rush hour was over, it shouldn’t be like this. There must have been some kind of accident. Yeah—she could just make out flashing lights, a couple of miles ahead of her, near rue Salopette . . .

Judy turned on her radio. They were playing a cheesy Vanessa Paradis tune from the nineties. She flipped the dial, looking for a news station.

“. . . our top story at this hour, the gruesome murder in rue Salopette of a business executive . . . police have cordoned off a two-block area and traffic is backed up as far as the Seine . . .”

Judy’s stomach contracted. Rue Salopette . . . that was where Gregoire’s townhouse was . . . it couldn’t be . . .

“. . . formal identification yet to be released but sources are telling Radio Cinq that this is Gregoire Lazard, chief executive of scandal-hit French jewellers, House Massot. . . . Analysts report that this is turning into a situation similar to the Gucci family murders . . . no word yet on whether there is a connection between this slaying and the bitter takeover battle being fought in the press between Thomas Massot and the new parent company, Mayberry . . .”

An hour ago she had been faxing all the information the company had on Gregoire Lazard to her own house.

She was suddenly very cold. Trembling, she pulled the car to the side of the street and parked. Let them tow it. She didn’t give a damn. She had to see if Pierre was still in the apartment. There could be no waiting in traffic, not right now. . . .

“Hello?” she shouted, as she pushed the front door open. Dear God! There was nobody here! “Hello?”

The sound of a latch; Judy spun around to see her bathroom door swing open, and Pierre emerge from it, a towel wrapped round his waist.

“Thank you for the documents,” Pierre went on. He walked towards the bedroom, where a new set of men’s suits were hanging in her armoire. “I need them. I intend to finish that man.”

“Yes.” He turned around to her, and gestured at the scars across his body. “I will pay him back for these. Firing him is not enough. He must go to jail for embezzlement. We must ensure that it is the worst jail in France. I hope he gets stuck in the ribs with a glass shiv. He would deserve it.”

“Murdered, tonight. In his apartment. He was found gutted ... his stomach was sliced open.” She blenched. “Like a trout.”

“Of course not literally, you silly goose.” He came over and ran a hand through her hair; Judy breathed in the scent of his skin, silky with bath oils. “I’m not a killer.”

“Let’s go to bed. I hunger for more than just food. And afterwards, I will tell you the rest of the story, what happened in Siberia. And you will understand why I hated Gregoire.”

“Yes,” Judy said. Desire, long dormant, almost dead, shuddered through her body. The tension and stress of the last year withered and died; Pierre was alive, with her, touching her ... hers, not Sophie’s . . . hers . . . “Oh, yes, yes, my darling. . . .”

Pierre took her hand and led her towards the bed. Women, he thought with contempt—such fools, so easily led—they believe what they want to believe.

When she was younger, and his preferred recreation, he remembered Judy Dean as spirited and adoring, intelligent and self-reliant. That had all gone; he saw greed, fear, the start of obsession. She had declined.

Judy nodded, and he solicitously poured the pale golden liquid into her crystal flute, where it frothed lightly. Yes, he approved; while her personality had shifted, unfortunately, the American retained some of her value. She had clawed and scratched at him, excessively, interestingly passionate, and she was providing him with useful cover.

The meal, too, was excellent. He remembered Judy as being a good shopper: she had discriminating taste in food and other luxuries. While he bided his time in rue des Cloches, Pierre was pleased to be doing it in style.

“A good vintage,” he noted. It was Perrier Jouët ’74, and there was a Mouton-Rothschild claret to go with the main dish. An appetizer of goat cheese and caramelized onion tart with a radic chio and rocket salad, deliciously bitter with the sweetness of the onion; a substantial, rich steak tartare with creamed spinach; and a dark chocolate flourless cake with ginger ice cream. Ah, God—not that he believed in God—the food, the food in France!

He had longed for this, his birthright; imagined it, and it was here. Lazard had died, and horribly. Pierre had no doubts—the bright star of his destiny remained in the ascendant.

Soon House Massot would be his again; he would settle in the château; wife and child would be under his control. . . .

“You were going to tell me, darling,” Judy prompted. “If you feel up to it, of course . . .”

“Yes.” Pierre assumed his most engaging stare, and was rewarded by a loving smile. He took a sip of champagne to cover his disdain.

“You deserve to know. I believe I told you of Lazard’s promise to be loyal . . . to take care of my business.”

“I went to Russia that day. I left everything behind. Everything. My family. The houses, my wealth. Everything. You ...” He ran a finger down her cheek and despite herself, Judy shivered with fear. Pierre looked at her, and continued. “Briefly. I will omit . . .” He would give her the bowdlerized version. “I had documents . . . maps of an area in Siberia, where Gregoire said kimberlite was found. You remember, I had been to Russia in my adolescence, and speak the language fluently?”

“I made my way to the area. It was very cold, even in summer; they mostly drill for natural gas that far north. There are mining towns.” He paused. “Bars. I made my way back to a bar I had known once before . . . long ago. It was still standing. The owner is an old man called Pyotr.” He smiled thinly. “He did not recognize me.”

“I called them to meet me at the bar. They took me out to the site in a jeep. . . . They had guns.” He shrugged. “This is normal, you understand, in the new Russia. Since the fall of Communism, there is lawlessness everywhere.”

“Oh, yes.” Pierre smiled coldly. “I could see lumps of rough in the ground, glinting under the snow. I got out of the truck and bent down to pick one up. And the chief of the men slammed the butt of his gun into my neck.”

“They blindfolded me and drove me north—although I did not know that at the time. Then they flung me into a cell in an abandoned jail. They beat me and whipped me.”

He toyed with his steak—even telling it so simply, it was hard to contain his rage. Pierre ate a mouthful of the rich meat, forcing himself to chew slowly. He must not again lose control.

“They were not interested. The head of the bandits was a cousin of Lazard’s. He had been paid to kill me, not capture me.”

“His real name was Grigory Alexandrovich. He was from Russia, not France. And he had maintained his contacts from that netherworld.” Pierre shrugged. “I was guilty of miscalculation. Since he was such a poor executive . . . I assumed he had no skill at anything. He lied to me.”

Pierre hesitated—the question took him back to that dark place, where he did not want to go: to the nightly beatings, the sessions with the knife, the rats . . .

“I focussed on one guard. He was the poorest of them all—late, otherwise sloppy on his shifts.” Pierre’s lip curled. “I promised him riches, and in the end he believed me. He snuck me food until I was improved in health, enough to travel, and he set aside clothes and boots for me. Eventually, one night, he brought me a gun. His name was Mikhail.” His eyes drifted away. “We shot the bandits after their evening meal, when they were drunk around the fire.”

Pierre did not elaborate. He recalled the moment with perfect clarity; the satisfaction of aiming multiple rounds into the stomach of each man, so that they would take hours to die—horrible, brutal hours, helpless and terrified.

“Why do you think?” An indifferent shrug. “Because for seven years, I had not seen the sun. Do you know what kept me going during that time?”

“Julius Caesar,” Pierre said. “He was captured by pirates, who took him to their lair and held him for ransom. He told them he would return and crucify them all. The ransom was paid, and they released him. A year later, he returned, hunted them down, and nailed them to their crosses.” His eyes glittered. “I had no crosses. But,” he said softly, “I made do.”

“I drove south, then west. They had some provisions, a little money. I took it all. It was a dangerous journey.” He smiled. “But I made it. Once I reached the West, I hitchhiked.”

“Don’t you see?” The smile was more sincere this time. “I didn’t want anybody to know I was alive. Not until my plans were set. When I returned, I would no longer be the victim. I would be in control.”

He poured a good glass of claret; the bright flames hissing and crackling in the grate lit it up, a rich, glossy ruby. Pierre offered Judy a toast.