The Secret Heiress (6 page)

“It’s hair-raising,” Adrian exclaimed.

“Disposing of toxic waste from Western countries by shipping it to Third World nations,” Coveri said, shaking his head. “It’s horrible. These countries can’t afford to weigh the dangers in taking this waste. I’m telling you, it’s going to be a disaster for us.”

Yves Carre finally spoke up. “You may well be right, Angelo. There’s a militant ecological group called Mother Earth’s Children,” he said. “They’re singling out PPHL as one of their major targets.”

“But this new venture is highly lucrative,” Sugar pointed out. “It’s making the company a bundle. I think the girl has some of her father in her, and he was a wily old fox if there ever was one.”

“You may be right, Sugar,” Adrian said, seeming to agree with her again. He looked off into the distance for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if she’s not so much wily as she is totally unscrupulous.”

“Don’t you think that’s an exaggeration?” Sugar asked.

Before Adrian could respond, Angelo Coveri took a sip of water from the crystal goblet on the table, then cleared his throat. “I’m telling you this,” he said, directing his gaze at Sugar. “Old Nikos would never in his life have dealt in toxic waste. That is a fact of which I am certain.”

Sugar frowned and tapped the tabletop with manicured fingernails. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’m not so sure, Angelo.”

“Quite frankly,” Yves Carre said, “I’m getting very nervous about the changes since she took over. All you have to do is check out the Internet to get an idea of the image PPHL is projecting. We’re being accused of plundering natural resources. Refusing to modernize facilities and poisoning the environment.” He looked around the table. “It’s only beginning, but you know how word spreads on the Internet. And sooner or later, we’re going to be vilified in the mainstream press because we’re not dealing with any of these issues.”

“Oh, come on. Do you really believe that?” Sugar asked, playing devil’s advocate.

Yves nodded. “Absolutely,” he replied. “The way the wind’s blowing, Sugar, it would do us well to start addressing these issues right away. If Nikoletta is as intractable now as she has been in the last two years, then . . .” He gave a Gallic shrug.

“I think you’re right,” Angelo Coveri said. “Nikoletta, I’m sorry to say, is the root of the problem, and something’s got to be done about her.”

“We’ve got to discuss the best way of going about approaching Niki with this information,” Adrian said. “I—”

A cell phone rang, and all four of the executives looked around the table, trying to decipher whose had rung. There was much patting of pockets before Adrian realized it was his.

“Excuse me,” he said, flipping the phone open. Shifting his chair slightly away from the table, he said, “Hello?”

“Adrian?”

Adrian recognized the familiar voice at once. He rose to his feet and retreated to a far corner of the room for privacy. “I’m here,” he said quietly.

“I’ve been doing as you ordered, but today she caught me.”

“I see,” he replied.

“Can you talk?” the man asked. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Somewhat,” Adrian replied, “but never mind. So what happened?”

“Nothing really. I didn’t blow my cover. I just told her about what I supposedly do. She was so absorbed in it, I wish I did.”

Adrian did not miss the interest in his caller’s voice. “Well, you make sure you keep a better distance. I don’t want it to happen again.”

The caller sounded chastened. “Will do.”

“You’re not to allow this to go any further. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Adrian flipped the cell phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket, then returned to the table. “Sorry about that.”

“Anything serious?” Sugar asked.

He shook his head. “No. Just an overenthusiastic assistant in New York,” he replied with a smile. “Where were we?”

After another half hour or so of discussion, Adrian adjourned the meeting, and they left the conference room. As he walked down the long hallway toward his room, Adrian thought,
This wild child is going to be the death of me, and she might be the death of the entire company.

He emitted a sigh. He was growing weary of intervening on Niki’s behalf, fixing up the messes she made. He’d been behind her in the beginning, giving her the benefit of the doubt and the chance to grow with experience. Nikos had groomed her for years to lead the company, after all.

As Nikos had grown older, he’d never wavered from his belief that Niki must succeed him. In the beginning when Nikos had separated Niki and Ariadne, Adrian had thought that Nikos had lost his mind. He was convinced that Nikos had suffered one of his spells of madness. He thought Nikos would come to his senses and eventually change his mind. But he didn’t. Nikos had always thought Niki was the daughter to be groomed to lead the company. Adrian and Nikos had argued about it many times over the years. Finally, Nikos himself had moved Ariadne to the United States just in case he’d made the wrong decision regarding Niki.

Adrian heaved another sigh. He had always thought he would eventually be able to talk Nikos into letting Ariadne claim her heritage, but that was not to be. Nikos had died without permitting it.
Maybe it’s time to pay a visit to Ariadne and see if she can’t replace her sister,
he thought. Of the twin sisters, he no longer had any question which one was the bad seed.

 

 

 

 

T
he photographer’s studio was in an enormous eighth-floor loft in the Flatiron District, between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas. The dingy turn-of-the-century structure didn’t give a hint that some of America’s most compelling images were created within its confines. The loft of Greg Lichtenstein, the much-in-demand fashion photographer, was reached by a dark, creaky freight elevator that could hold twenty-five or thirty people with ease. Its spaciousness did little to dispel its cell-like creepiness, but when its door opened and newcomers stepped from the ancient bobbing car into Greg’s loft, they were swept away by the futuristic atmosphere that greeted them.

In the spacious entry room thousands of square feet of flooring rescued from bowling alleys that were about to meet the wrecker’s ball had been laid and several coats of polyurethane gave it a high gloss. The high walls and ceiling had all been painted in a photographer’s white, and on them hung an assortment of Greg’s most famous images, most of them published in high-fashion magazines all over the world. The reception room was lined with black leather-upholstered banquettes, where one could wait for an appointment in comfort, leafing through choice magazines placed on the black marble-topped end tables and coffee table. In the center of the room was the receptionist’s desk, an enormous black marble slab on which an orchid sprouted dozens of white blossoms.

The receptionist complemented the environment, being totally clad in black down to her stiletto-heeled shoes. Even her straight, orange-dyed hair, cut near her shoulders in an even line repeated in the bangs across her forehead, fitted the picture. She commandeered the busy ultramodern BeoCom multiline telephone with as much ease as she handled the keyboard accompanying the large flat-panel computer screen on the desk, even though she had long chocolate-colored fingernails that shone with new varnish.

When Bianca Coveri rushed into the reception area, she ignored the veneer of glamour. Nor was she surprised to hear the loud hip-hop music playing on the studio’s powerful stereo system. She had been here many times because she ran PPHL’s garment subsidiaries. One of their expensive designer clothing labels was photographed here, and Bianca was frequently on hand to make certain that PPHL got what they wanted—and dearly paid for. Today’s shoot was part of a multimillion-dollar ad blitz, and Bianca wanted to assure herself that every detail was as she wanted it. Today, she also had another reason for being here: she’d taken an interest in one of the models.

“Hey, Merilee,” she said to the receptionist in a breathy voice. “I’m late. How long have they been shooting?” She unknotted the black cashmere scarf at her throat and left it dangling loose, then shrugged out of the black feathered-mink coat she was wearing and put it around her shoulders. She swept her shoulder-length jet-black hair back away from her face, then let it remain where it fell.

“They’ve barely started,” the orange-haired woman replied, flapping a hand airily. “You know how it is, Bianca. High drama. Last-minute hysteria. Always.”

“What kind of mood is Greg in today?” Bianca asked. Greg was a pro—of that there was no question—but he could be very temperamental. He was a perfectionist and expected the same level of participation from everyone involved, from the models to the hair stylists, makeup artists, and clothing stylists, down to the lowliest lighting assistant.

“No major dramas so far,” Merilee said, “but, like I said, they’re just getting started.”

“I’d better get in there,” Bianca said. “See you later.” She hurried toward the tall ebonized double doors that led into the first studio, and opened one of them quietly, peeking inside to see what was happening. Perhaps she could sneak in without distracting Greg or any of the models from their work, but it was not to be.

“Bianca,
cara
!” Greg gushed. He left his post at a tripod-mounted camera and greeted her at the door, his hair in wild Einsteinian disarray, his eyes bright with energy, his wiry body virtually throbbing with excitement. He came alive on a shoot, putting everything he had into it, then deflated like a balloon afterward. He gave her air kisses in the direction of both cheeks, and she returned them in kind. “You look divine as always,
cara
.”

“Oh, thank you, Greg,” she said. “Sorry I’m late, but you know what the damned traffic’s like.”

He waved her apology away. “Why don’t you sit over there?” he said, pointing to an empty chair to his right. “Do you want something to drink? Hard? Soft?”

Bianca shook her head. “No, thank you, pussycat,” she said. “I’ll go sit and be a mouse.”

“If you change your mind, tell Gretchen,” he said, pointing to a blond-haired assistant. “She’ll get it for you.”

“Thanks.” She patted his shoulder, then headed to the seat he had indicated. She sat down and crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Great expanses of white fabric hung from the ceiling all the way down the wall, then spread out onto the floor for thirty feet or more. Three male models stood in the middle of the white “ground,” awaiting instructions from Greg. She was disappointed to see that Frans wasn’t among them. Glancing around the studio, she didn’t see him among the plethora of assistants and stylists.

Where could he be? she wondered nervously. Surely he’d come in today. Even if he was sick, she thought, he’d have dragged himself out of bed to get to this shoot. He was one of the hottest new male models in town, but he could ruin his reputation in an instant if word got around that he was late or didn’t show up for scheduled shoots. She began nervously drumming her fingernails on the black alligator Dior handbag in her lap, then forced herself to stop.

The three models in the shooting area were attired in spring clothing that would be featured in one of the PPHL garment subsidiary’s ad campaigns three months down the road. The outfits were nothing short of stunning, she decided, and not simply because the models were so good-looking. The stylists had done an artful job of dressing them with the clothing that the garment company had provided, and had added a few accessories of their own choosing. Mixing and matching, using a hat here, a pair of boots there, a belt or necklace, and so on.

Over the roar of the music, she heard Greg’s voice. “Frans! Get your ass out here.
Now!
”

Bianca’s stomach gave a lurch, and she looked toward Greg. His face was red with barely suppressed fury. She knew that it would turn a full-fledged purple before he let go and really lashed out, ruthlessly berating anyone who dared to hold up his shoot, no matter the reason. She hoped to God that Frans wasn’t going to be a problem.

She had little time to worry about it. From a door that led into another part of the immense studio, Frans sauntered into the room, taking his time, dragging the shirt and jacket he was supposed to be wearing along behind him. Bianca felt her heart leap when she saw him. He had such a dazzling presence that she didn’t think she would ever become accustomed to his extraordinary handsomeness. Each time she saw him she was shocked anew. He was over six feet tall, muscular but lean, so that every movement he made, even the slightest, was accompanied by the visible motion of a set of muscles. He was born with perfect proportions: wide shoulders, a long torso, narrow waist and hips, and long legs. His dirty-blond hair hung well below his neck, and his blue eyes were startling, mesmerizing even. She watched as he slid the shirt on, covering the tribal tattoos on one arm, then lazily tucked half of it into his trousers, deliberately leaving the other half out. Finally, he put his jacket on.