“Good. Good.” Fucking Montfort, Pete could not deny he was competent. More than competent. “But we still need the rest. There’s a full twenty percent in petty shareholders, private hands?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Forget Lily, or any of the other girls. Forget his plump son coming home from camp. Pete wanted nothing more than to get out of this sweatsuit and get into his office. It was a dangerous situation. He needed to think.

His only consolation was that the Englishman had, for once, fucked up.

“This is a freaking disaster,” he yelled. “Two weeks from deal time and you let that French bitch throw some freaking party and—”

He was listening to a dial tone. Montfort had, indeed, hung up on him. Fuck! He threw the phone across the room.

“Is everything okay, honey?”

His wife was hovering. Like him, Claudia had a finely tuned antenna for money. She had been spending their future Massot cash in her head for the better part of a year.

“I gotta go to work,” he grunted.

“But you’ll miss Paulie.”

“Give him a kiss from me. It’s an emergency, okay?”

“Sure thing, honey.” His wife knew when not to press it. She had no intention of rocking the boat.

Stockton considered things for a moment. This was kinda shocking. Everybody knew Hugh Montfort was the hardest-assed businessman in jewellery. He was freakin’ famous. How could he have screwed up like this? How could he let some playboy’s trophy wife—well, widow—put one over on him? Was he banging her, or something?

It wasn’t possible the girl was good at the job. She hadn’t even gone to college. Child bride and kept woman. What would she know about it?

What the fuck. He, Pete, had to sort out the mess.

His first call would be to the Crillon, to leave a grovelling message of apology for Hugh Montfort. Otherwise, he knew he’d have a resignation letter on his desk first thing in the morning. Montfort was not the type to threaten; he’d just walk. No, Pete would have to eat humble pie. Again.

The thought made him furious, and he struggled with himself. It wasn’t good for his blood pressure. He kept a flask of twenty-year-old malt whisky locked in his desk drawer; time for a medicinal glassful, Pete thought.

Fucking Hugh Montfort. Fucking Sophie Massot.

“Claudia, call my driver,” he barked.

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

She woke at dawn; it was not quite six. Sophie lay against her soft, down-feather pillows and watched the dawn through her lead-paned windows; pale peach light streaking against the blue; the promise of more fair weather.