That was the last straw. Here he was, trying to battle overhead costs and staff problems, trying to design a way to show Mayberry crap in a Massot space, and Hugh had simply done an end run around the whole logistical nightmare. He sold his shitty brooches and rings online. Not a dime in rent, not a cent in salary. It was pure profit.

And, so the press delighted in telling him every few days, Hugh Montfort was raking it in. If it’d been publicly traded, his stock would be reaching for the stars right now. Meanwhile, Pete’s was in the toilet.

He’d lost money. This year’s bonus was down the can. Pete’s stock options had declined, and there were option calls on some investments he’d punted on. He might even have to sell the summer place in the Hamptons. Claudia bitched at him on the telephone—every night.

One day he’d have his revenge on Gregoire Lazard.

“If I go, you go,” Pete repeated sourly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lazard said rudely. He turned and flipped through the papers. There were more glowing reviews of the first Montfort collection out today. Vogue had hit the stands, and it approved. Big time.

“We have to stop all this good press they’re getting. We have to make the Tom Massot lawsuits go away.” Stockton chewed his lip some more, toying with the ulcer that had developed there. “How can we make these people seem like the tawdry little fucks they really are?”

Lazard paused. Then he shot up out of his seat like somebody had lit a firecracker up his ass.

Stockton cursed. “Don’t jump like that,” he said, clutching at his heart. “I don’t like shocks.”

Lazard ignored him. “We use Judy. Judy Dean.”

Stockton rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. She’s bullshit. PR director? She hasn’t been able to do jack for us. The novelty value of using Massot’s girlfriend wore off a while ago. In fact, I’ve been meaning to fire her. One more quarter-mil salary we can take back.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Lazard smiled thinly. “We use her to draw fire away from us. You want tawdry? I have a scandal so huge that nobody will pay attention to our restructuring anymore. And the Massot woman, at least, will retire from the spotlight. She’s a timid little mouse,” he shrugged. “She’s nothing. There’s no way they’ll take the heat. It will destroy mother and son.”

“I suppose you’ll get around to telling me what the fuck you’re talking about.”