“I should go,” he said, quietly.

“Go, go,” Pete said, slapping him on the back again. “Damn good job, Hugh. What is it you Brits say? Good show.”

Montfort smiled thinly. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

Stockton shrugged. “I’m okay. I’ll probably just head back to the hotel.” His eyes, hooded in the fleshy face, flickered over the crowd, settling on a couple of salesgirls. Both blondes, one of them pneumatic. They smiled warmly at their corpulent boss.

Montfort tried not to let his distaste register. No, Pete Stockton would not care to party tonight. Too many people about who knew his wife, Claudia, a regular on the L.A. charity circuit. And Stockton did not really care about stars or mingling. Just the bottom line. He knew perfectly well that was served best when their dashing CEO did the meet and greet.

“See you later,” Stockton said. He stared at the girl with the tits. She simpered and tossed her fountain of blonde hair.

Montfort nodded. “I believe we have a board meeting in June,” he said. An implicit rebuke. He had no intention of seeing Pete Stockton again until he absolutely had to. Stockton waddled off in the direction of the salesgirl, and Montfort, diligently avoiding all congratulations with murmurs of thanks, made directly for the door, and his limo.

The signature red and white stripes of the Mayberry awning hung over the illuminated showroom, newly leased at great expense, but well worth it. In L.A., if you weren’t directly on Rodeo, forget it, Hugh thought. He would drive by here tomorrow on his way to the airport, just to see the crowds that would be thronging around the door, clamouring for a glimpse at the new collection. He made a note to himself to raise the starting price on every piece a thousand dollars. Tonight. An imperceptible nod, and his driver pulled into position.

“The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion,” he said, once he was seated inside.

“Yes, Your Honor,” said the driver, respectfully.

Montfort lifted his head—grinned. The first genuine smile to have crossed his lips for some time. That was funny. The man had evidently looked up the passenger name—the Hon. Hugh Montfort—and thought he was some kind of a judge. But he wouldn’t dream of correcting him. He tried never to make people uncomfortable, if business wasn’t involved.

“Big party tonight, sir,” said the driver.

“I’d rather be in bed with a book,” Montfort said, with complete honesty.