“She’s right, you know,” Judy told him. “Let’s head back to the city, you call Pete. Once that’s done we’ll know if they’ll go for it. Then we can get some lunch.”

“And after lunch?” Tom gave her a long look.

Judy let her lips part; her tongue flicked out and moistened them.

“Well, baby . . . I guess we’ll find something to do,” she teased.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

The heat was unbearable in L.A. Even his state-of-the-art air-conditioning didn’t seem to make much difference. As soon as Pete stepped out of the car, or the office, or his home, he was engulfed in a thick blanket of muggy, sticky heat you could cut with a knife. Six coats of Sure didn’t stop the telltale wet patches from appearing under his arms; he wore dark colours, but even so, he had to change his shirt up to four times a day.

Anyway you cut it, August was a pain in the ass.

He was glad to be in the air. First class was always a pleasure. And he was headed for Europe, where the weather was bearable.

And of course, his task was pleasant.

It had taken barely fifteen minutes after that wonderful call came in to persuade the other board members. A couple of them bitched about Montfort’s performance, but nobody could really argue against the deal; it was just too perfect, too much money.

What would it hurt to give the kid some stupid title? They’d work out an ironclad contract that gave him no rights—full consultation, no action. Stockton wasn’t sure exactly who he’d put in charge. But it wouldn’t be Tom Massot. And it wouldn’t be Hugh Montfort, either.

He loved the kid, right now. The kid could have any title he wanted. Pete would set him up with a fancy office, an expense account, and a Tootsie Roll of a secretary. Tom Massot was better than Santa Claus: he’d given Pete House Massot, and all its millions, and he’d managed to take Montfort away at the same time.

“Champagne, sir?” The stewardess was hovering over him; she was in her late thirties, competent looking and heavyset. Not like in the good old days, when pleasing businessmen was more important than courses in air safety and disarming terrorists, and all the air hostesses were bleached blonde dolly birds in their twenties.

But he wouldn’t let anything ruin his good mood today.

“Sure,” Pete said. “Why the hell not.”