The Secret Heiress (15 page)

I’m already intrigued,
Bianca thought. “Okay,” she said.

Maria held the door open for Heidi, and she came into the room sketching a wave in the air. “Hi, Niki.”

“Hi. Heidi Lyons, meet Bianca Coveri.”

They shook hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you since I’ve been here,” Heidi said.

Nikoletta watched as Heidi sat down in the chair next to Bianca’s. They were both very intelligent, even brilliant, she thought, but they were opposites in other ways. Bianca’s perfect grooming, fashionable clothing, and well-toned body didn’t necessarily give the impression that she was a high-powered businesswoman. Heidi was another story. She had frizzy, unkempt hair and ugly eyeglasses, and wore an unfashionable gray suit and practical, scuffed black shoes with low heels. Yet behind those ugly spectacles were steely eyes that never missed a thing. She wasn’t yet thirty, but had proved her worth time and again.

“I’ve wanted you and Bianca to meet for some time. I’m hoping that Bianca will be our new troubleshooter. The job I described to you, Heidi.”

“From what I’ve heard about you,” Heidi said, looking at Bianca, “you’re perfect for the job.”

“Why don’t we go on into the dining room?” Nikoletta said. “I think Christian’s ready for us.”

She ushered them into the next room and went to her customary chair. From it a dramatic view of Manhattan spread out below. Christian had already appeared and pulled her chair out for her. After she was seated, he performed the same service for Bianca and Heidi.

“This is lovely,” Heidi said.

“Yes,” Bianca agreed. “It’s really beautiful, and so much nicer than going to a restaurant.”

“Shall I serve the wine?” Christian asked, looking at Nikoletta.

She nodded, and he began pouring. “I hope you like a chardonnay,” she said to Heidi. “As Bianca knows, we only serve wines from our own vineyards, and this is one of them.”

“That’s fine with me,” Heidi said brightly.

“What do you do here at PPHL?” Bianca asked Heidi.

“I’m a futures trader for one of PPHL’s food subsidiaries,” Heidi said.

“Heidi scored a major coup speculating on cocoa futures.”

“Oh, how’s that?” Bianca asked with interest.

“Buying two percent of the world production,” Nikoletta said, “then selling it at its seventeen-year high. She made PPHL tens of millions of dollars.”

“That’s very impressive,” Bianca said. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Heidi said.

Christian returned with a large tray that he set on a buffet and began serving bowls of a salad, beginning with Nikoletta.

“That looks delicious,” Bianca said.

“It’s a curried lobster salad,” Nikoletta said. “I had Christian call a friend of mine in Paris to get the recipe. I stayed at their château one weekend and loved this.”

“Oh, I’ve never seen so much lobster in my life,” Heidi said, ogling the salad with relish.

“Well,
salut,
” Nikoletta said, holding her wineglass up for a toast.

They clinked glasses and began eating, Nikoletta picking at the food carefully. She was a perpetual Atkins dieter, although she was model thin. After a few small bites, she gazed over at Bianca.

“What do you know about chocolate?” she asked.

“Only that it’s fattening,” Bianca said, “and that I eat too much because I love it so much.”

Heidi and Nikoletta smiled. “I love it, too,” Heidi confessed.

“And what about the so-called Cocoa Belt? Do you know anything about that?” Nikoletta asked.

Bianca looked at her with questioning eyes. “Absolutely nothing,” she said.

“Why don’t you fill her in, Heidi?” Nikoletta said.

“Well,” Heidi began, putting down her fork and warming to the subject, “most of the world’s cocoa for chocolate production is grown in West Africa. Especially in Mali and Burkina Faso and Ivory Coast. In 1999, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund put pressure on Ivory Coast to stop fixed pricing.”

“So that freed up the cocoa market?” Bianca guessed.

Heidi nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Not that the cocoa farmers were any better off afterward. No trickle-down economics there. Plus, the International Labour Organization, a UN agency, singled out Ivory Coast for child labor abuses. They estimate that around two hundred thousand children work in hazardous conditions there.”

“That’s . . . that’s so overwhelming I can hardly conceive of it,” Bianca said.

“Well, it’s true,” Heidi said. She took a sip of wine, then continued. “The major chocolate manufacturers have said they’ll try to certify that all their products are free of abusive child labor practices.”

“And . . . ?” Bianca said. “Let me guess. The government in Ivory Coast won’t help implement the plan?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Nikoletta interjected after a nibble of salad. She explained that fighting between government and rebel forces had interrupted the UN’s global campaign against child labor abuse.

“In other words,” Bianca said, “it’s a war zone.”

“Well, let’s just say that Ivory Coast has its share of civil strife,” Nikoletta replied. “Most of those African countries do, you know.”

“So where would I fit in the picture?” Bianca asked, although she was forming an answer to the question even as she spoke.

“Well, if you took the job . . . ,” Nikoletta began, gazing at Bianca shrewdly, “this would be your first assignment. I know that you’ve been working very hard over the years to help put an end to child labor abuse in the garment industry—”

“—where it’s
still
epidemic!” Bianca burst out passionately.

“Maybe so. But it’s people like you in the industry who have made headway,” Nikoletta said, emphasizing the point with her fork.

“Nikoletta and some of the other people here have told me about some of your work in the area,” Heidi chimed in, “and I think all the good you’ve done is wonderful.”

“I like to think so,” Bianca said. She couldn’t help but feel flattered by their appreciation for her efforts in the garment industry, but she added doubtfully, “It seems like a losing battle sometimes, Niki.”

Nikoletta shook her head. “No, Bianca,” she said, “you can’t think that way. It’s an
ongoing
battle. And you know what I think?”

“What?” Bianca asked.

“I think that if anybody can try and convince these planters and farmers in Ivory Coast to change their ways, it’s you. You’ve had some experience in this area. Besides, you’ve got the kind of . . . well, it’s charisma, really . . . that Adrian has. You can talk to people. Common people. And you can convince these planters that they should be sending their children to school instead of out into the fields with machetes.”

Nikoletta took another nibble of her salad. She knew that she had dangled irresistible bait for Bianca, and she enjoyed waiting to see her take it. Hook, line, and sinker. She knew that this was just the kind of social injustice that Bianca was so passionate about. Her bait was taken more quickly than she’d anticipated.

“There’s no way I can say no to this,” Bianca said excitedly, setting down her wineglass. “It’s just the sort of thing I love getting involved in, and if the job entails this kind of assignment, you’ve got me, Niki.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m absolutely positive,” Bianca said enthusiastically.

“You know that it could be dangerous,” Nikoletta responded. She quickly added, “Of course, you won’t be going alone. You’ll have a local guide by the name of . . .”

“Moctar Yanou,” Heidi supplied. “I’ve been working on this for weeks,” she said to Bianca. “It’s such a challenge.”

“Plus you’ll be escorted by hired guards.” Nikoletta paused and looked at Bianca. “I know you’re excited, Bianca,” she said, “but you’re really certain you want to take on something like this? Maybe you should think about it like you said. I want to make it perfectly clear that I’m not ordering you to do this.”

Bianca shook her head emphatically. “No, no,” she replied. “I
must
go, Niki. Just don’t tell my father where I am until I get back.” She laughed. “You know him. He would blow a fuse.”

Nikoletta laughed. “I know,” she said.
Believe me,
she thought,
telling Angelo is the last thing in the world I would do.

“When would I leave?” Bianca asked.

“Heidi is going to give you a detailed briefing,” Nikoletta replied. “Then we’ll take it from there. Probably within a week? What do you think, Heidi?”

“I can just tell,” Heidi said, gazing at Bianca with admiration, “you’ll soak in all the information I’ve got for you in no time. Plus, of course I’ve got everything on a laptop that you can take with you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bianca said.

“Excellent,” Nikoletta said, touching Bianca’s arm with her hand. “I knew this new position was for you.”

She folded her napkin and placed it on the left side of her plate. “Well,” she said, “do you two want to go ahead and get started? I’ve got a busy schedule today.” Before Christian came forward to help pull her chair away from the table, she twisted it sideways and rose to her feet. Bianca and Heidi quickly followed suit.

Nikoletta placed a hand gently on Bianca’s shoulder. “If I don’t get a chance to see you again before you leave,” she said, staring into her eyes, “just remember that you can back out of this if you want to. And if you go through with it, you’ve got all of PPHL’s support behind you.”

“I won’t back out,” Bianca said.

“Well, I’ll see you later, then,” Nikoletta said.

Christian ushered the guests out of the dining room. “This way,” he said, indicating a door that led directly back out into the hallway, so that they wouldn’t have to go through Nikoletta’s office.

Nikoletta watched them leave, then went back to her office. She sat down at her desk, opened a drawer, and took out the latest issue of
L’Uomo Vogue,
the Italian men’s fashion magazine. On the cover, intense blue eyes staring directly into the camera as if he was taunting it, was Frans. His long dirty-blond hair was a wild mass framing his handsome face, with its prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose, and sensuous lips. She smoothed her hand over the cover and smiled. “Bye-bye, Bianca,” she whispered. “And hel-
lo,
Frans . . .”

 

At three o’clock, Nikoletta called her secretary, Maria. “Tell Anthony to be downstairs waiting for me in fifteen minutes,” she said. “I’m leaving early.”

“Yes, Ms. Papadaki,” Maria replied.

Nikoletta hung up the telephone, then placed some paperwork in her briefcase and snapped it shut. Going into the bathroom, she checked her makeup and washed her hands, then dabbed her neck with perfume. Flipping off the light, she went out and picked up her briefcase and took the elevator downstairs to meet Anthony.

“We’re going to West Forty-second Street and Twelfth Avenue,” she told him.

Anthony, the behemoth who served as her driver and personal bodyguard, swung the limousine out into the traffic. He knew where they were going without more specific instructions. Weaving in and out of the heavy traffic, he reached the construction site in a short time.

“Wait for me here,” Nikoletta told him. Before her rose an extravagantly designed, three-sided titanium-and-green-tinted skyscraper. Swelling with pride as her gaze traveled its height, Nikoletta felt a surge of pleasure rush through her. The huge billboards in front proclaimed the building as the soon-to-be-completed PPHL International Headquarters.

“Nikoletta!” a man called to her.

Rik Persoons, the world-famous innovative Belgian architect, hurried toward her.

“Hi, Rik,” Nikoletta said.

“Shall we go up?” he asked, holding out a construction helmet stenciled with PAPADAKI.

“Yes,” she said, anxious to see the progress.

He led her to the steel girders framing the main entrance, and they began a tour that took them down into the basement and subbasements, then back up through the building to its seventieth story.

“As you can see,” Rik told her, “we’re still ahead of schedule. Work is proceeding around the clock, and I mean twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

Nikoletta’s eyes gleamed with a pride that bordered on megalomania. She had surveyed every nook and cranny of the building’s top three floors. Not even the ductwork had escaped her attention. These three highest floors would be the heart of her empire as well as her new home. The triplex apartment for her was going to be the largest, most expensive apartment in New York City.

No one . . .
no one . . . , Nikoletta thought, surveying the vast expanse of the seventieth floor,
has ever had it so good
.

Seventy stories above street level, fierce gusts of wind sweeping down the Hudson River buffeted her, but she didn’t notice. She was completely absorbed by the dreams of glory the site inspired.
This is
my
building,
she thought.
My half-a-billion-dollar baby.

“It will be the most fantastic apartment in the world,” Rik said over the wind.

Nikoletta frowned. “Yes, but it could’ve been even more spectacular. Those ridiculous zoning boards and community associations! They work overtime to impede progress.”

“I know,” Rik said. “Still it will be the most sought-after apartment in New York. Hands down.” He felt as if he was always trying to humor this impossibly difficult woman half his age. She had wanted the building to be the tallest in the world—120 stories high—and to rule her empire from a roost at the top. Unfortunately, New York City’s community groups and the zoning board put a stop to that.

“Yes, but look at Shanghai,” Nikoletta said peevishly, “and Singapore. You don’t have any of that nonsense there, do you? There the sky’s the limit.”

“Yes, but what can you do?”

Nikoletta turned away from him, gazing out across the Hudson River to New Jersey. Then, shifting on her feet, she made a complete circle, taking in the views from every direction. South, past where the World Trade Center used to rise, over to New Jersey and then Staten Island. East, all the way past Manhattan and Queens and Brooklyn to Long Island. North, beyond Manhattan and the Bronx to Westchester County.