The man laughed. Hugh swallowed a sigh and looked out of his tinted windows at the L.A. traffic streaming through the night. This was the part of the job he most loathed, but he would do it to the best of his ability all the same. Glad-handing celebrities, networking with agents, fending off the attentions of the minor starlets, delicately, so that none of them took offense. That was hard: some of them were very persistent.

Hugh Montfort had everything a millionaire actress could want: chiseled good looks of the nonplastic kind. A military background he never discussed. Money of his own. Success that would never compete with hers. A sort-of title. And a castle in Ireland. It was a distinguished list, and not one that was overlooked. But he had no interest in actresses, even very beautiful ones, except as walking billboards for Mayberry jewels. He supposed there would be lots of offers tonight, both business and personal. Especially once the rumours started that he had advised Jill Calvert not only on what to wear, but on what to say.

But he would disengage himself gently. Appear at as many parties as possible, and head for home, what, about 3 a.m.

A great weariness swept over him. He was already jet-lagged and exhausted. And he took an engineer’s care with the machine that was his body: no stimulants other than coffee, and not too much of that. He would not be fuelled by coke or uppers, or whatever designer drug the rich were into these days to ease the pain of having nothing important to do.

Montfort balled his fist, summoning forth reserves of adrenaline. When much younger, in the Marines, he had learned how to do with very little sleep and how to concentrate in much worse conditions than this. A raw second lieutenant, barely twenty-one, crawling through sodden, freezing fields on his belly. Trying to take an Argentine position. Praying he didn’t get anyone shot. Yes, that was suffering. Not going to a dull party, even ten dull parties.

He thought of the war whenever he felt depressed or the urge to quit reared its persistent head. It was better to think of that than his real sorrow, the one he fought day and night not to dwell on. And it put the present trouble back in perspective, as something trivial, not worth his consideration. That attitude, he knew, had helped him become the powerhouse of his business that he was tonight. No covers of Fortune or Forbes, not yet. But Hugh Montfort had something better. His rivals, to a man, knew him. And feared him. He had taken Mayberry from nothing, from just another fussy, small marque eternally obsessing over Cartier, to the leaders of young style, and the brink of worldwide dominance.