Carla Neggers - Betrayals

She bristled. “Who are you to talk to me about love? Get out of my house.”

Jean-Paul ignored her. “And your company,” he went on. “Winston & Reed is your triumph. It would never have amounted to anything if your husband had lived. How fortunate he died, hmm? You’re the Winston. You were always the one with the money and intelligence, but you insisted on being the perfect Boston woman and wife-until Benjamin’s death freed you. A widow can get away with so much more, can’t she? Yes. Look at Annette Reed, bravely carrying on alone.”

“Get out, Jean-Paul.” Her voice was low and deadly, but the Vietnamese guard remained impassive, not moving until she specifically instructed him to.

Jean-Paul persevered. “You always loved to take risks. It used to be you could satisfy your zest for risk by going to bed with the kind of man I once was.” He made himself smile and move toward her, until he was so close he could have taken her into his arms. Better a viper, he thought. But he lowered his voice and exaggerated his French accent, “Aah, ma belle, you were a passionate woman. Have you put all that passion into your company?”

She pushed him away. “Go to hell.”

Jean-Paul laughed. “We’ll go together, ma belle.” Then he moved in close again, daring her to touch him; he saw her wince at the foulness of his breath and the ugliness of his scars. “I can destroy your son, and I can destroy your company. Quentin and Winston & Reed. Imagine them gone. What would you have left?”

For a moment she was expressionless, saying nothing. But Jean-Paul could see beneath the composed facade, could sense how angry she was-and frightened. Could he do it? Would he? Annette might like risks, but she wanted them to be on her own terms. She hated losing control. With Jean-Paul, she had lost control thirty years ago and had tried to drive him out of her life for good.

“Don’t threaten me,” she said, but her voice cracked. She licked her lips. Without lipstick, they seemed pale and thin. Still, she had never been vain about her appearance. “No one will believe anything you say about Quentin or about me. I’ll have you locked up for the raving lunatic you are.”

Unaffected by her outburst, Jean-Paul walked to the table and fingered a chunk of rose quartz Annette used as a paperweight. “ Mai Sloan ’s a pretty child, isn’t she?” he commented, without looking at her.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen her, Jean-Paul. She’s just fourteen-”

Annette broke off, and Jean-Paul could tell she was getting nervous. The more uneasy she became, the more relaxed he felt. She was a formidable opponent, and to get what he wanted, he had to keep her off balance. Or she would win. Again.

He looked at her. “Get me the Jupiter Stones.”

“Jean-Paul,” she said in a whisper, “let the past be.”

“I can’t,” he replied and left her standing amidst her expensive antiques, her bodyguard’s eyes following him as he disappeared.

Not until she heard the back door shut and his footfall on the cobblestone carriageway outside the open window behind her did Annette move. Then, clutching her chest as her heart throbbed painfully, she flung herself into the hall, running to the front parlor, tripping and stumbling along the way, her vision blurred by tears.

She got to the window in time to see him go through the wrought-iron gate onto the brick sidewalk.

Jean-Paul Gerard.

He wasn’t even the ghost of the robust, cocky young race-car driver he’d been thirty years ago. His horrible face would give her worse nightmares than she already had about him, night after night. He seemed so shrunken and pitiful and old. Yet he was younger than she was. His yellowed, skeletal smile had stirred up her fears of dying, and she’d have given him the Jupiter Stones, just to be rid of him.

If she’d had them.

She watched him limp down the shaded brick sidewalk of Mt. Vernon toward Charles Street until he was out of sight. “Damn you to hell, Jean-Paul,” she said, turning back to her silent, empty house, “why aren’t you dead?”

Although Sofi Mencini’s apartment in a renovated stone building on the waterfront was decorated in warm pastels and simple lines, it was as spectacular as any in Boston. Various furnishings were handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, custom-made, not because Sofi sought to be different or special, but because she knew exactly what she wanted. The effect, especially combined with the stunning harbor views, was both welcoming and awe-inspiring. A visitor knew at once that this was a successful woman with power, compassion, intelligence and humor. Rebecca wouldn’t have wanted to get rich with anyone else.

“I had to cancel a meeting,” Sofi said when she greeted her ex-roommate at the door. “Dare I ask what this is all about?”

“Not if you’re smart.”

Sofi digested that remark and could tell at once Rebecca wasn’t kidding. “David’s in the kitchen.”

David Rubin was a curly-haired redhead in his midforties. He loved to flirt with Sofi-and, thirty seconds after meeting her, with Rebecca-but he was totally committed to his wife and their five children. Together they ran a jewelry store at Copley Place. They’d sold Sofi and her fiancé, Hank-a game-creator, ace puzzle-builder and as one-of-a-kind as everything else in her life-their wedding rings. A rumpled, cheerful man, David always seemed to have baby spit-up on his tie or the odd piece of Lego in his pockets. When it came to gems, however, he was very serious and very, very careful.

He examined Rebecca’s stones for more than an hour.

Sofi and Rebecca drank iced herbal tea on Sofi’s balcony while they waited. David had tried to get them to go back to the store, where he had all his equipment and reference materials, but Rebecca refused. She felt uneasy enough as it was showing the stones to him and Sofi, possibly jeopardizing their safety. Accepting defeat, David did make several cryptic calls to his wife to verify information.

“I’m not going to ask questions you’re not going to answer,” Sofi said.

“Good.”

Rebecca sipped her tea, feeling Sofi’s penetrating executive’s glare. Not much over five feet, Sofi had transcended the stereotype of small women as vulnerable and weak-willed with her strength of character and high expectations of herself and those around her. Reliable, creative and direct, she thrived on the challenges of corporate life, and was good at what she did.

On the other hand, Rebecca thrived on change and taking risks with her money and her talent. She regularly drove her financial advisors in New York crazy. One had told her he’d be happy if she’d just make up her mind whether she was going to live like a rich person-she did occasionally-or a “Cinderella who can’t decide if she’d rather have a coach or a pumpkin to ride around in.” She had totally frustrated him by laughing. Later she’d discovered she’d been driving them all crazy and they’d decided to draw straws for who got to vent his spleen to her. He’d been the lucky winner. It wasn’t business at all, he’d explained: Rebecca was on top of every penny she had and every penny she’d ever spent. It was, he admitted, just personal. Did he want out? Oh, no, working for her gave him great material for breaking the ice at parties.

“You get a copy of The Score?” Sofi asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Jared’s still good-looking, isn’t he?”

Rebecca sipped her tea. Despite Jared’s failings, Sofi had always chastised Rebecca for letting Jared Sloan go. “You have unrealistic standards, R.J.,” she was fond of saying.

“I think you should call him,” Sofi suggested bluntly. “Sharing the front page of a supermarket tabloid gives you a good excuse.”