Lynne Pemberton - Platinum Coast

It was such a phoney act it was almost laughable, Christina thought. But before she could reject the suggestion, Victoria was replying, her remarkable eyes flashing a stormy blue-grey light.

‘No, Antonio, I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe you’d run Platinum Resorts the way Daddy would have wanted. Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll take my chance in the bidding.’

‘Me too,’ said Christina. ‘Stephen left his family more than well provided for. It was obviously his way of giving us a chance to keep control of Platinum Resorts.’

Victoria gave her a cold, contemptuous stare. ‘Less of the “us”, please. No matter what Daddy might have wished in his letter, I’m acting purely for myself in this. If my bid’s successful, Christina, you’re out. As far as I’m concerned you were never more than an interloper in this family.’

Christina drew in her breath. More than ten years of it, and yet Victoria’s venomous hatred still had the power to cut her like a knife. Such a depth of ill-feeling, just because Christina had had the temerity to become Stephen Reece-Carlton’s second wife.

Stephen, she prayed silently, show me what to do. I miss you so. Why did you push us all into this crazy competition? Was it just to prove how well you had taught us?

Or perhaps it was for another purpose altogether?

Oblivious to the others, wrapped in her own private thoughts, Christina leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes to hide the stinging tears that threatened. Perhaps, by taking part in this battle for control of Platinum Resorts, she could find the answers to the questions that haunted her night and day. Why had Stephen died? Who had entered their house in Barbados and pushed him to his death – for that it had been murder all along she was suddenly in no doubt at all.

Yet the man she had met eleven years before had been kind and generous, rich in more than monetary terms. How could she ever have dreamed it would one day come to this? One company and three contenders equally determined to wrest control. A regular scorpion’s nest after such golden beginnings …

‘I declare the Westside Shopping and Leisure Centre officially open.’ Chris Gowan, the soap star from Coronation Street , smiled broadly at the flashing press cameras.

‘Thank you all for coming today.’ He had to shout above the deafening applause generated by thousands of eager, noisy shoppers gathered outside the huge new shopping mall on the outskirts of Manchester.

Six young model girls dressed in Wild West theme costumes and armed with a stack of promotional brochures walked towards the small rostrum where Chris was standing. Their appearance was greeted by loud whistles and jeers from a group of crested and tattooed punks pushing precariously close to the platform.

‘These beautiful girls will be mingling amongst you today …’ Chris held up his hand for quiet as the youths shouted in unison: ‘Get ‘em off.’

‘Later, lads, later.’ Chris grinned, and the punk rockers roared their approval. ‘The girls are laden with lots of free goodies for all of you.’ He paused before going on to say, ‘Westside Leisure Centre has something for everyone, and we are offering free gifts today and all of next week. Don’t forget to enter our free prize draw and you could be the lucky winner of a holiday for two in Majorca.’

This announcement caused another wave of whooping and yelling.

‘I do hope you will all enjoy shopping at Westside Leisure Centre.’

Chris Gowan stepped down from the small rostrum to join the six models, all wide, gleaming smiles, posed bodies and pouting lips directed at the press and local television cameras. He stood very close to one particular chestnut-haired girl, obviously appreciating the view over her low-cut boned bodice.

‘Do you mind?’ she hissed.

He winked and laughed. ‘No. Do you?’

Christina O’Neill remembered that he was the visiting celebrity and she was just one of the glamorous bodies recruited for the punters to ogle at during the opening ceremony. With a smile fixed firmly in place she moved off through the crowd, handing out brochures.

‘Can I interest you in one, sir?’ she asked a grinning, shaven-headed spectator, and instantly realized her mistake.

‘D’you hear that, lads?’ he asked his mates. ‘She fancies me. Yeah, come on, darlin’. I’d fancy one with you any day.’

Christina was about to tell him to get lost when he hooked his finger through the bright-red garter she was wearing and twanged it so hard against her leg that she jumped and dropped the pile of brochures she was holding. They scattered at her feet, some of them sliding across the ground.

Christina glared at him before bending down to retrieve the brochures.

‘I get so sick of men like you,’ she said angrily, as she rose to her feet and found herself staring, not at the leering youngster, but at a man in a beautifully cut dark-grey chalk-stripe suit. His thick brown hair was brushed away from a high forehead. She caught a hint of the subtle, tangy cologne he wore. Without knowing exactly how, she realized it was a very expensive one.

‘I’m sorry.’ She felt her face flush. ‘I wasn’t talking to you. I was about to tell that creep …’ – she pointed towards the punk, laughing and joking with his gang – ‘… exactly what I thought of him.’

She sighed and added, ‘Men!’

‘Not all of us are like that, you know.’

Christina looked directly into his pale-green eyes.

‘I’m beginning to wonder. So far I’ve had the misfortune of meeting too many of that variety.’ She smiled wryly and added, ‘I’m afraid it’s an occupational hazard.’

He glanced at the scanty saloon-girl’s outfit that accentuated her narrow waist and exposed most of her long, shapely legs, and nodded.

‘I can understand why.’

‘I must be mad, getting dressed up like this for a measly twenty-five pounds a day, but a gal’s got to eat.’ Her laughter held a hint of mischief, and he thought again that she was more than just another pretty girl.

‘At least I’ve met one gentleman.’ She smiled at him under downturned lashes as he handed her the brochures she had dropped. It seemed he was about to speak to her again when an older, slightly corpulent man approached, looking very agitated. She recognized Robert Leyton, one of the mall’s developers, who had contacted the agency to hire girls for the opening.

‘Stephen, there you are! Charles Naylor is waiting in the hospitality lounge. He’s scheduled to tee off at two and would like to see you before he goes.’

‘Mustn’t keep the man from his golf,’ Christina’s rescuer commented, then, before Robert could steer him away, he said, ‘By the way, I didn’t catch your name?’

Robert glared in their direction. ‘Stephen, Charles won’t wait much longer.’

He ignored the impatient voice and smiled at her, showing even white teeth.

‘My name’s Christina.’ She paused. ‘Christina O’Neill.’

‘I’ll see you later, Miss Christina O’Neill.’ His tone was emphatic.

‘Come on,’ Robert shouted, walking ahead.

Christina watched the two men walk away before being tapped on the shoulder by the tattooed arm of the punk rocker who insisted on showing her his fascinating assortment of chains attached to various parts of his anatomy. He took a dozen free offers and asked her out for a drink, much to the amusement of his motley crew of friends, who collapsed into shrieks of laughter when she refused the date.

She spent the next six hours giving away hundreds of free special-offer coupons, chatting to pensioners about the cost of living, placating fraught babies, fending off the unwelcome advances of gangs of unemployed youths, and being battered by an assortment of baby buggies, prams, and huge shopping bags.