A Kept Woman (44 page)

balance sheet was the leanest in the business.

‘Any more questions?’

She settled back into her seat as Michael rose to his

feet. A flunky passed him the microphone.

‘Mr Chairman, I have a couple of questions, if I may.’ Foxton peered out across the rows of dark-suited men

and women in navy and cream, He blinked.

‘Mr Chairman,’ Ernie said hastily, ‘Mr Cicero runs a

rival company to ours. I don’t think questions from him

are appropriate.’

‘Actually, you have no choice but to allow me to speak. I am a stockholder of four point five per cent of Blakely’s. You will see my name as the twelfth mandated speaker on your list, Mr Foxton.’ Michael grinned. ‘The Chairman of Romulus Holdings, Inc. That’s me.’

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‘This is obviously an ambush,’ Ernie spat.

‘As a matter of fact, I tabled my questions two months ago. Besides, as I’m sure you stand behind your running of the company, you won’t worry about answering them. Will you?’

Diana watched as half the room turned round to watch Michael, conservatively dressed in one of his black English suits, with dark shoes and a paisley tie. He was polite, but incredibly menacing. The strong body looked like a cobra ready to spring.

Michael’s steady gaze and level voice were dominating the room. She could feel the current of electricity, the muted buzz of whispers, that rippled through the investors and Wall Street analysts gathered there.

‘Mr Cicero is correct, Ernest.’ Flustered, old man

Gammon, the chairman of the board, was consulting a lawyer. ‘He has the right to speak.’

‘I don’t mind answering any questions,’ Ernie said quickly, ‘but I think it’s unorthodox procedure.’ The set of his mouth was sulky. ‘Please say what you have to say. We want to finish up this meeting.’

‘Oh, I’ll be finished just as soon as I have my answers,’ Michael said. ‘First, I’d like to ask you about the cost savings. Isn’t it true that included in that figure are voided contracts with seventy authors who have gone on

to have bestsellers at other publishing houses?’

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Ernie snapped.

‘Perhaps it’s as simple as this: isn’t it also true that your bestsellers have all cost approximately three times to market and promote as they have inade in returns, and that once the spending stopped they disappeared? And isn’t it also true that for every bestseller you have produced in the last six months the company has made a loss?’

‘Market share is a worthwhile goal,’ Ernie replied, a little less confidently.

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‘Then let’s discuss Education Station. Of the moneys invested in new offices, salaries and other overheads, how much have you recouped?’

‘Nothing. It’s a startup. They are never profitable.’ ‘Oh, Imperial Games is profitable. But then we haven’t had to recall over eighty per cent of our lines because of bugs. I would like an explanation of the fact that money was spent heavily to promote a line of games which was not yet ready, so that the name of the company is now mud among suppliers.’

Ernie sputtered, ‘I don’t think you are seriously interested in the answer to that question.’

‘I am,’ said a loud voice behind Michael.

Diana turned her head to see a tall older man with white hair glaring at the dias. She recognised Joshua Oberman, the formidable chairman of Musica Records. ‘I have some of my retirement money in this company. I want to know the answers to these questions. Perhaps Mr Foxton will oblige me.’

‘And me,’ called out a squat woman with thick glasses. She was Katia Hendorf, one of the Street’s most respected analysts.

There was uproar. Gammon banged his gavel for quiet. But Michael still had the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am extremely concerned about the way this company is being run. Key staffers are fired while an ineffective management retains a private jet for top executives. Market shar.e is being propped up by empty spending. If any investors are as concerned about this as I am, please feel free to stop Ms Diana Verity outside the hall. We have printed our own report on Blakely’s.’

Diana stood and gave a little nod to the spellbound room. She lifted up her Gucci briefcase, with its distinctive burgundy leather, so that they could all see it. Inside were the one-page summaries of the disastrous way

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Blakely’s had been handled. They were easy to read, easy

to understand.

They were devastating.

Diana looked across at her ex-husband and winked.

Michael silently handed the microphone back to the conference-hall flunky.

On the dias, Ernie’s face was half white, half purple. He shouted over the hubbub. ‘This is a disgrace! That cow is my ex-wife, all right? And she’s no better than a—’

There was a loud screech of feedback as Paul Gammon reached over and switched off Ernie’s mike. For a few seconds, the hall watched in amazement as Gammon and Foxton shouted at each other. Then Ernie Foxton jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backwards and, shoving

board members out of the way, stormed out of the hall. Michael squeezed her hand.

‘I think we should be leaving now,’ he said.

Ernie Foxton was a survivor. He walked out of the conference room, straight into the lobby, and stepped into the executive elevator that shuttled him from the sixteenth floor to the underground garage where his lirn’o was always waiting.

‘Wake up,’ he shouted at Richard, his driver. ‘Get your fucking lazy little arse up and get me home, all right? Is

the fax

working?’

The chauffeur jumped out of his skin. He’d been trying to snatch a little rest in between airport shuttling these rich assholes. But Ernie Foxton was the worst Of them all.

‘Yes, sir, it’s all there,’ he mumbled. He straightened his cap and hurried to open the door for his boss. Foxton looked like someone had put a rocket up his arse. How great it would be if that were actually true.

‘And fucking hurry up about it,’ Foxton screeched. He had calls to make. His lawyers in London would be able’

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to get him another job over there. The key thing was that he should lock in the cash before this news broke. His incompetent bloody lieutenants were responsible for all of this crap.

Ernie wasn’t deceiving himself. That ball-busting bitch he’d married and that little wop fucker had shafted him. He’d get fired. And run out of New York.

He was going to jump before he was pushed. Paul Gammon’s switching off his mike was reason enough. Ernie yanked out the laptop from the back of the limo and hurriedly started to type. If he was fast, he could be back on Concorde by tomorrow. Friday at the latest.

There was a silver lining to the cloud, though. That grasping bitch Felicity would be out of his life. She’d been rubbish when the going got … a little bumpy.

As the limo pulled out onto Broadway, it struck Ernie that Diana would have handled it differently. If she’d had the good sense to stay married to him. It was sad the way she had declined since he dumped her. Once, she’d known how to spend money and look good … bring a man a touch of class. Real class, the kind that Felicity would never have. But now she was a feminist harridan, a career girl, he sneered to himself. Pretending she knew about publishing, about computer games. They had announced her new earnings in the Wall Street Journal without comment.

Unbelievable. Could it possibly be that she took herself seriously?

The apartment was empty when he got home. Crispin Morrell, his lawyer in London, was already hunting out prospects. Ernie’s resignation was in. He wanted to rifle through his papers and check out the size Of his golden parachute. A million or two. Nothing spectacular. He envisaged the immediate loss of the jet, the driver, all the sweet little perks that went with being chairman of

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Blakely’s. Not even his PR girls were available to issue a refutation of Michael Cicero, because they belonged to Blakely’s.

‘Felicity?’ he shouted. But she wasn’t there, of course. She was probably out at Tiffany’s.

He quickly called the bank and cancelled her charge card. At least there was one area of his life, Ernie thought viciously, that he still had some control over.

He hated Cicero. Bitter, vengeful, interfering little punk. Ernie wallowed in self-pity. The thought that this guy was fucking Diana caused him nothing but pain. Ernie walked to his bar and poured himself a large Scotch. Diana was frigid, of course. A dreadful lay. But she’d been an excellent wife otherwise.

He knocked back the liquor and thought about her. Her curves weren’t to his taste, but she had her admirers: the press loved her, the socialites buzzed about her. And she had dated Brad Bailey. He was-serious money. I respect that, Ernie thought, maudlin. He reached for the Scotch. It blurred the edges of his stress, and bathed everything in a calmer, more golden light.

After another glassful he walked deliberately upstairs to Felicity’s bedroom. The bitch had a Rolodex with more information on people than the CIA. She was a jealous little madam. She was bound to have something on Diana.

‘OK. Yeah. I’m watching it, I’m watching it now. Thanks, Selina.’

Tina slammed the receiver back” in its cradle and switched her remote to NY One, the local access channel. Since her break-up from Michael, every girl she knew had been calling up with condolences, which was more sour than sweet of them, she thought. Now Selina Gonzales was giving her a heads-up about Michael and the limey bitch coming out of some meeting. Fascinated and’

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infuriated, Tina curled her long, smooth legs underneath her and stared at the mob of guys in suits pressing round her baby and that slut as they stood together on the sidewalk. Diana was handing something out. Papers. It looked like she was giving away free lottery tickets or something, the way those boys were crushing her. Piqued, Tina couldn’t see what Diana was wearing. She always liked to criticise her clothes, with those tits, always dressing so conservative, so boring. Michael was a fuddyduddy when it came to showing skin. Though after hours he had never objected to seeing all of hers.

She caught a glimpse of sleek black limos parked behind the crowd. Damn. That was the world of money and power Tina had always wanted to enter. By Michael’s side she could have done. What the hell was this guy saying?

She flicked up the volume.

‘… business scandal of the year.., investors seem to

be discounting the personal motivation behind this attack

… investors in an uproar here’.

‘And Mr Foxton fired Mr Cicero a year ago, correct?’ ‘That’s right, Jim, some time ago. While Ms Verity, who heads up Cloud Nine, a new starter that’s making waves in the book world, was actually his former wife, and was divorced by Mr Foxton in a messy high-society scandal,’ the reporter said, almost licking his lips.

Tina picked up the dog-eared copy of the National Enquirer that was lying on her gold faux-satin coverlet and smiled. Maybe there was still a way to get back at that bitch. She had an idea.

‘We have two choices.’

Michael turned to Diana and put his hands on her

waist, tugging the silk shirt loose so he could put his hands directly on her skin. It was amazing, he thought, how he just could not fuck this girl enough. With the

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others, it had always been the case that his enthusiasm drained before they had finished their first cup of coffee in the morning. Now, he needed to remember to get enough condoms. A couple of three-packs wouldn’t cut it any more.

He felt the instant, helpless leap of her skin. He decided he wouldn’t let her wear padded bras any more, that way he could actually see her nipples tightening.

‘And what are they?’ Diana asked, blushing and looking down. Michael always set her off balance. He put himself in her space, he stared right in her eyes. The blazing intensity he had at his work he directed right at her. She wondered if she was a horribly retro creature. She found his muscles, his physical strength, the size of him, his dominance over her, incredibly exciting. Michael didn’t beg for sex like other men she had known. He just took. And the paradox was, she wanted him. When he pushed her back on the bed, she was already ready.

‘We could go out to dinner and celebrate. Somewhere fancy. Your kind of place. Lutece. Four Seasons.’

‘Or I could call for takeout and we could go to bed.’ ‘I vote for the second option,’ Diana whispered.

‘Somehow I thought you would,’ Michael said. He slid her tight, pencil skirt up over her full, firm hips, stroking her butt, and traced his initials over the silken hair of her groin with his finger. Diana shivered and offered him her mouth. Michael pressed his lips on hers, kissing her roughly. His hands came up-and palmed her breasts, lightly, over the padded silk cups of her bra.

‘Still clothed?’ Michael demanded. ‘What’s the problem? We don’t have all day here.’

‘I’m sorry—’ Diana gasped. She struggled out of the jacket and bra. Didn’t he realise who he was talking to? Wasn’t he put off by her accent, her class, her elegance? She loved the way Michael just didn’t give a luck. H

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oved her for her, and ripped the trappings off her the way he liked to tear off her thin lace panties. She had learned to keep an emergency supply in a case here, because Michael had no respect for her wardrobe whatsoever.

‘Too late,’ he said, softly. He pulled off her skirt and thong panties and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder. They didn’t make it to the bed.

l380 ‘

Tina walked a little more slowly than usual. She was getting used to her brand-new heels, for one thing, four inches of shiny scarlet leather wrapped round a steel spike that thrust up her ankle, jutted out her barely there butt, and made her slim hips swing slightly as she minced along, trying to ignore the pain in her toes. After all, she did look great. No pain, no gain. This way, as she inched down Madison Avenue, she could stop and admire her reflection in every designer boutique window she passed. She had on a fire-red Versace suit, as subtle as a brick, thigh-high, with a military-cut jacket with gaudy gold buttons. Her lips were blood-red too and her eyelashes thick with navy mascara. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back in a shower of gold that caught the light. Men and women stopped to rubberneck. Well, hell, Tina thought, she was glad she’d given them something to gape at. Just last week Harper’s said red was the new neutral. Which meant she was only blending in.