Do Not Disturb (70 page)

Thirty minutes later, she was kicking off her shoes in an Upper Class seat, sipping at a much-needed glass of champagne. Lucas’s magic touch with women was apparently just as effective over the phone as it was in person: he’d managed to sweet-talk the battle-ax Virgin supervisor in about ten seconds flat. Not that Sian was complaining. It was nice to have his legendary charm working in her favor for once.

“Do I have time to make a quick call?” she asked the passing stewardess.

“Of course,” the girl smiled helpfully. Evidently they reserved their moronic nail filers for the cattle-class check-in desk. “We won’t take off for fifteen minutes.”

Simon Davis was passing a dull afternoon at his desk at the
News of the World
, alternately playing solitaire on his computer, picking his nose, and thinking up imaginary offenses for which he could bawl out his reporters, when his direct line rang.

“What?” he barked, Rottweiler-friendly as ever. Belatedly recognizing Sian’s voice, he added, “Oh, it’s you. Haven’t you been deported yet?”

But within a minute, his dismissiveness had gone, replaced with rapt attention. Sitting bolt upright, he leaned forward over his paper-strewn desk with the receiver superglued to his ear, waving at everyone around him to be quiet. One thing you could say for Simon: he might be a miserable bastard, but he knew a good scoop when he heard one.

“Absolutely,” he said, once Sian had finished. “We can run it this Sunday. How much did you say you wanted again?”

Sian repeated the figure.

“Fine.”

He didn’t hesitate, and she instantly regretted not having asked for more.

“But if you shop it around to the
Mail on Sunday
behind my back, I’ll tear you limb from limb.”

“I won’t,” said Sian, hanging up.

Taking another sip of her champagne, she closed her eyes and finally allowed herself to relax. There was no need to tell Lucas or the others about her little backup deal. But now, whatever happened tomorrow night—whether Lucas and Honor pulled off their ambush of the Herrick party or not—Sian would have her story. While most of America was still asleep and the party was
drawing to a close, the first copies of the
News of the World
would be hitting newsagents and corner shops all across England.

She might not ever be Mrs. Ben Slater. But she was damn well going to be the next Lois Lane.

A
NTON SAT CONTENTEDLY
in the back of his limousine the next morning with Mitzi drooling loyally by his side, watching the flat Long Island scenery roll by. Tonight was going to be one of the greatest nights of his life, public affirmation of the success he’d worked so long and hard to achieve.

All he needed for his happiness to be complete was for his knighthood to finally come through. But his man in the ministry had assured him he needn’t worry on that score. He was a shoo-in for the next honors list, after the obscenely large loan check he’d written to the government last month. The first time he heard himself addressed as Sir Anton would truly be a day to remember. But tonight’s party at the Herrick would be a good start—a taste of the recognition to come.

He was also excited about seeing Petra again. Saskia had served a useful purpose. She’d kept Petra on her toes and done an A job whipping up press coverage for the party. But sexually he was already tiring of her, like a little boy gorged on too-rich birthday cake. He longed for Petra’s skinny, unforgiving body and the icy, imperious way she looked at him when they made love. Knowing that she was furious about the way he’d foisted Saskia on her made the prospect of their reunion all the sweeter.
Few things in life gave him more pleasure than fucking an angry, resentful Petra into submission, bending her to his will. Making love to Saskia was like diving into a sea of marshmallow. With Petra, it was more like taming a wildcat.

He was also relishing the prospect of the
This Is Your Life
–style presentation that Saskia had planned for this evening. It was being billed as a surprise, so he’d have to look suitably humble in front of the press and VIPs and feign embarrassment.

But in reality he’d overseen every detail of the footage, and even gone so far as to run the twelve-minute film past his civil servant friend to make sure it was on message from a knighthood point of view. He’d been assured he came across as powerful but compassionate—“a magnanimous magnate,” as the ministry man had put it, a turn of phrase Anton liked so much that he’d suggested it to Saskia as a title for the film.

He wondered what Lucas would make of it.

He’d extended invitations to both Lucas and Honor, largely so that none of the press could accuse him of grudge bearing, but was amazed when Saskia told him that Lucas had accepted. Surely the boy must have deduced by now that he and Connor were in cahoots and that he was both the brains and the bank behind the court case? Of course, it was possible his intention was to cause a scene, to try to upstage the event by airing his grievances among Anton’s famous guests. But if he did, it would be his funeral. No one would be interested in the drunken ramblings of a washed-up conspiracy theorist like Ruiz. Not when they had the party of the century waiting to be enjoyed.

Honor, more predictably, had declined to attend, citing pressure of work. The new Palmers was opening later this year, and she was busy putting the final touches to it—much good may it do her. Anyone with even the most rudimentary business sense would have seen it was ludicrous to try to open a niche boutique next door to the most successful hotel in the world. Anton
had built up his Tischen empire by building close to big-name hotels, but they were always fading giants, never rising stars like the Palmers. Plus, he had unlimited funds with which to force his rivals out of the market. By all accounts, these days Honor Palmer could barely afford to buy a sandwich and, according to Petra, had last week been spotted varnishing Palmers’ fences herself, by hand. Talk about David and Goliath!

Ruffling the fur on Mitzi’s head, Anton closed his eyes contentedly and turned his thoughts back to Petra. Why waste precious thinking time on Honor, or Lucas? As far as he was concerned, they were both yesterday’s news.

While Anton savored his impending hour of glory, Lucas was in Honor’s old cottage, frantically delving under cushions and piles of paper for his car keys.

He was supposed to be picking Sian up from the airport this morning, but after a late night with Honor working on the master plan for tonight, he’d overslept and was now hopelessly late.

“Shit.” He sent another two groaning accordion files flying across the room. “Honor!” Sticking his head into the narrow stairwell that led up to the cottage’s lone bedroom, he shouted into the void. “Have you seen my keys? I can’t find them anywhere and I have to go. Now!”

A few moments later, a sleep-addled Honor appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes. In a pair of oversize men’s pajamas—
whose were those?
Lucas wondered jealously—and with her cheeks still creased from the bedsheets, she looked adorable. All she needed was a teddy clasped to her chest and a Linus blanket trailing on the floor to complete the picture.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“Ten,” said Lucas testily. He was tense as hell about this evening, and his brief night spent on the cottage’s hard sofa had
done little to improve his mood. “I’m seriously fucking late, and this place is a pigsty. No wonder I can’t find anything.”

“Hey,” said Honor, getting annoyed herself, “if you lost your keys, that’s
your
fault, not mine. As for the pigsty, I didn’t see you in a rush to clean up after yourself last night.”

It had been a long night and they were both strung out. With another two months to run on her lease, Honor had held on to the cottage as a sort of overspill office, a place to store the mountains of as-yet-unfiled paperwork relating to the new Palmers building works.

Since Lucas’s unscheduled arrival, it had morphed into the nerve center for Operation Anton and served as his temporary base while he was in town. Normally he would have slept in the bed, and Honor would have gone home to her suite at Palmers. But it was so late when they’d finished last night, there was no point in her going home. In an uncharacteristic display of chivalry, Lucas had offered to take the tiny couch.

He regretted it now. He hadn’t slept a wink. Quite apart from the logistics of trying to get comfortable on a piece of furniture designed by a sadist for a midget, just knowing that Honor was upstairs, probably naked, in his bed, kept him tossing and turning through the small hours like a prisoner on the rack. The combination of sleep deprivation, sexual frustration, and stress about what lay ahead of them—what if they blew it and got thrown out, or worse, arrested?—conspired to make him moodier than a teenage girl in the throes of PMS.

“Your keys are on the counter,” said Honor, coming wearily down the stairs. “I can see them from here.”

Snatching them up with an irritated frown, Lucas thrust them into the back pocket of his jeans.

Grabbing a bagel from the bread bin on his way out, he left, slamming the cottage door behind him so hard that the sea of papers fluttered up into the air like windblown leaves.

Honor surveyed the mess he’d left behind.

“A simple
thanks
would have been nice,” she mumbled, crossly. But she still hoped he’d drive safely on his way to Kennedy. He could be awfully reckless when he was stressed out, and on two hours’ sleep those one-lane roads out of town could be lethal.