"Hell gal, why didn't you let me know? Cindy could've fixed something up for you. That girl's got a list of boys bigger than a census bureau."

"Maybe next time."

"Damn, Clifford won't be over before the weekend. He would've done, just fine. You met Cliff before? My boy? From my first marriage."

"You've mentioned him," she said drily. Had the two of them walking down the aisle in his mind.

"Oh well, let me introduce you to a few people. Hey, maybe I can have one dance. Make an old man happy."

"I think your friend would scratch my eyes out first," she nodded at the Playmate girl.

"Ouch, Julia. There's a lot of Philip in you," he said admiringly.

She quashed the laugh while it was still in her gullet.

Sorrow.

"Good. Because I'd like to do some business with you."

Horace Jepson suddenly became wary. "Most of Globecast's contracts with Event Horizon are pretty much cut and dried."

"Well, not formal business. More a favour."

"Go on."

"There's a programme I might want broadcasting. It's important to me, Uncle Horace."

"What sort of programme?" he asked cautiously.

"A planet-wide exposé. Every current-affairs channel Globecast owns."

Now his face really fell. "Julia, honey, do you know the kind of legal angles on this? I mean, if you're really hot on rubbishing someone, then hearsay ain't no use."

"I've got the proof. All we need."

"Damn, but I wish you didn't grow up so fast."

Kendric di Girolamo was at the party, and Hermione. Julia didn't know when they'd arrived. Kendric was his usual oily suave self, dancing with a girl who made the Playmate look like a hag.

Their eyes met and held. She gave him a cool, level gaze. Quietly satisfied at the startled light in his eyes. Quickly hidden.

He knew full well she couldn't stand the sight of him; expected a girlish glare, a tossed head, flouncing off in a huff. Instead he got a dispassionate assessment from a multi-billionairess. Small wonder he was surprised. Hopefully concerned.

Squirm, she wished him silently. Her eyes moved on sedately, showing him how little he mattered. Fighting the impulse to whoop for joy. It'd begun.

Horace Jepson had hired a five-piece rock band for the evening, the Fifth Horseman, their axemen tooled up with reasonable copies of Fenders. They were dressed in torn T-shirts, studded Leathers, and thigh-length boots. Clean, though, Julia noticed. But they were a tight outfit for all their synthetic attitude, the rhythm pumping out of their Gorilla stacks hot and fast. The singer had a Ziggy Stardust stripe across his face, 3D paint opening into middle-distance.