She got excited about shopping. Home decor. And, of course, jewels.

She’d stopped talking now and moved back into the kitchen to yell at the cook. The House Massot diamond earrings he’d given her, three round bezel-set canaries that dangled from her lobes, flashed in the California sunlight; Claudia loved them, never took them off even in the daytime.

Pete liked giving her jewels. A man’s wife was a reliable indicator of his worth, as much as his house or the car he drove. In a town like L.A., where everybody went by limo, a wife was actually more convenient as a status symbol. He didn’t know much about jewels, but even Pete could see that House Massot was altogether classier than Mayberry. He dined out on the success of his firm, but owning House Massot—that would be another step up.

Stockton thought about Hugh Montfort. He couldn’t stand the prick. Yeah, sure, it had been a smart hire. Montfort had made them all a hell of a lot of money. But at what price? His holier-than-thou attitude had bugged Pete from the start. And people gave him the credit, all the credit, even though Pete was the chairman of the board. Hadn’t Pete been the one to hire the guy? As far as he was concerned, Montfort could take that snooty British attitude of his and stuff it. He was just the help. No fancy suit and soldier-boy body would ever be able to hide that.

Not for the first time, he wished he could lose Montfort. The limey got in the way of Stockton’s reputation. Once the Massot deal was done, he’d like to look for another CEO. Hugh Montfort wasn’t the only guy in the world who knew how to run a jewellery chain. He could poach from Tiffany or Louis Vuitton. Even Gucci.

It would have to wait, though, until Massot was in the bag. Things were looking good; Sophie Massot had fallen flat, like you’d expect from a broad, and they only had three months to go. . . .

“Honey . . .”

“What the fuck. Can’t you see I’m watching the game?”

Claudia smiled serenely and extended the phone. “Call from Europe. It’s that nice Hugh Montfort. You should have him over for dinner. He’s quite the gentleman.”

Pete wanted to respond, “Fuck Hugh Montfort,” but it might be audible down the line. He hated it when Claudia got all moony over that pasty-faced Brit.

He snatched the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Afternoon, Pete. Sorry to trouble you at home.”

“It’s the weekend, Montfort. This better be important.”

“I can certainly call back tomorrow, if you’d rather.”

Rather. Of course he wouldn’t rather. The Englishman had called his bluff. He wanted to know every detail.

“That’s okay,” he was forced to grunt.

“There might be a problem.”

Stockton flicked off the television and sat bolt upright.