Jill Calvert smiled, bowed, shook her beautiful head. The citrine and diamond earrings sparkled like raindrops in sunlight. Around Hugh there were sighs of envy and pleasure.

On the screens in front of them, Miss Calvert lifted her golden Oscar aloft and kissed it. More cheering. She smiled radiantly and said, “Thanks.”

And then she turned and left the stage.

The superstar comic stared.

There was a horrible pause, and then the bandleader, caught utterly by surprise, started to play, his Muzak barely drowning out the murmurs of the crowd. And then, as Hugh watched, there were smiles—smiles of amusement, and smiles of jealousy. Every man and woman sitting there was an old media hand, and each one of them realized at once what Jill Calvert had just done. The only thing that would be talked about the next morning. On a show where weeping, ten-minute speeches thanking everybody from God to the star’s dog-walker were the norm, she had made the shortest Oscar speech ever.

And it couldn’t be beaten, either, because it was precisely one word long.

Jill Calvert would be everywhere tomorrow. And in the months to come. Endless pieces would be written about that moment: analyzing everything, talking about her image. And the sleek black dress and the wild, flashing jewellery would be a part of that.

Montfort smiled. When the exchanges opened tomorrow, Mayberry stock would be up. He thought possibly as much as 5 or 6 percent.

The crowd broke around him, applauding him as though he were a movie star himself. These were Mayberry executives and salespeople, the frontline troops in the L.A. office, most of whom owned a little stock in the company, and all of whom were thinking about their wallets.

Montfort glanced at his watch, a discreet gold Patek Philippe. Mayberry made watches, but he never wore them, nor his firm’s cuff links, for that matter. Funky was not his style. He was an old-fashioned Englishman with a horror of ostentation, and would rather have been shot dead than be caught wearing any of Mayberry’s jewellery for men. He had inherited several pairs of cuff links and a signet ring from his father, Sir Richard, and that was all the ornamentation he required. Early on, Pete Stockton had suggested Hugh switch to Mayberry products, but a single look had been enough to warn him that that was a deal-breaker.

And they had wanted Montfort, while he had not particularly cared about going to work for them. Mayberry’s was an interesting challenge, nothing more. He had been born rich, the son of a baronet, and didn’t need the money.

Working at the firm was only about one thing to Hugh Montfort. Winning. That was it. And that was enough.

It was ten thirty. By the time his limousine had arrived at the Governor’s Ball, dinner would have started. Even in Hollywood, where it was fashionable, Montfort hated to be late. It seemed undisciplined.