Richard saw him and got out of the car; he held open the back door.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Please call me Tom, Richard.” He smiled. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll ride up front with you.”

The older man smiled, and shook his proffered hand.

Tom slipped in and buckled up.

“The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times, sir—I mean Tom.”

“Thanks.” Tom took the papers and flicked through them as Richard pulled smoothly into the long driveway. “And Richard, allow me to apologize if I’ve been an insufferable git.”

Richard glanced at him, then laughed.

“That’s quite all right, M. Tom. Most rich people are, you know. Not your mother. If you ask me, you’ll turn out just like her.”

Tom grinned. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment.”

It was barely eight o’clock when he got into the office, but many of the staff were already there. They applauded as Tom entered the building, and he thanked them. Mostly, he suspected, it was simple relief not to have to see Stockton again. Winning their trust for real would take time.

Today was a start.

He moved back into the corner office on the top floor. A beautiful young girl with enormous tits was sitting, simpering, behind the secretary’s desk; she looked about nineteen.

“Hello, M. Massot,” she purred, thrusting herself forward.

Ah, yes, Stockton’s choice.

“Good morning. What’s your name?”

“Lucille, Monsieur,” she replied breathlessly.

“How do you do.” He shook hands. “Lucille, please report to the typing pool for a new assignment. It’s nothing personal, but I want a secretary with experience—at least ten years’ experience,” he added hastily, before she could say she’d “worked” for Pete.

She pouted. “Very good, Monsieur.”

He closed the door and called personnel. “Get me the best assistant in the company, a mature woman with a track record.”

“Certainly, M. Massot. You do not like Lucille?”

“I’m sure she’s very good, but I am looking for competence. Do you understand?”

A note of respect.

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell whoever you select to find me the names of the managing partners of at least six top head-hunting firms.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom hung up. The phone instantly rang again, and he looked at it with irritation. Couldn’t they handle a simple request for a good secretary without having their hands held?

“Yes?” he said, annoyed.

“Tom?” A chill shot through him. “It’s Judy.”

Okay, he thought. You can handle this. In fact, you have to. It’s good that she called.

“Judy,” he said, trying for warmth. “How are you? You haven’t called; I’ve been concerned.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said. He was instantly struck by the change in her tone; it was indifferent, distant. “I owe you an apology.”

Relief. “That’s fine, Judy—forget about it. We can work this out. . . .”