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Michael shot from his chair and started to pace. He looked like a leopard, a jaguar. Feral. Suddenly she almost felt sorry for Ernie. ‘We actually have product ready to go. We can package it, sell it, and use the profit to wipe out the bank debt.’
‘I can talk to the banks,’ Diana agreed.
‘Right. That keeps us afloat and buys us time. Meanm while you look for new code-writers. There must be some out there that are untapped. And we wait for Ernie to luck up. The fact is, he’s going to.’
‘How do you know that?’ Diana asked.
Michael looked at her, and she had the impression he was looking straight through her, into the future. He was focused like a laser beam.
‘Because he doesn’t understand children,’ Michael said. ‘He doesn’t care. He just wants money. It’s why the new Green Eggs range of books was such a bomb.’
‘It was a bomb?’ Diana repeated, surprised. ‘How do you even know that? We’re not in the publishing business any more.’
‘I keep tabs on him,’ Michael said, and his voice was cold. ‘Know your enemy. Now, you go out there and rally the marketing guys and go tap-dance for the banks. I’ll handle the distributors. We’ll take it slow, and we’ll get through this.’
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. The golden, sunny fall in Manhattan deepened and hardened into winter. Diana bought warm clothes and went dancing with Brad but Imperial occupied all her time. Little by little, under Michael’s leadership, they clawed their way back from the brink. The Gecko games were another small success. Suddenly they could pay their bills.
Diana scouted for code-writing talent, but she looked in different places this time. Hackers with criminal’
records, designers of board games, females who were locked out of the computer boys’ club, all came on board. Michael didn’t care. He said they were in the second chance business. ‘These guys get one and it means we get one,’ he said.
By the time December blasted down across the skyscrapers, a third line was in production. Imperial was back.
‘What are you doing Friday night?’
Diana looked up from her screen to see Michael standing over her with a pair of tickets in his hand. She lifted a brow. ‘Asking me out on a date?’
‘Since I’m dating Tina, I don’t think that would be such
a good idea,’ he said, easily.
Diana looked across the room at Tina. Since the weather had turned bitter, she no longer skipped around the office in her itsybitsy skirts, but she still managed to be fully clothed and look like she was wearing next to nothing. Today she wore a pair of thin, black leather pants that hugged her flat stomach and tiny butt, and a matching silky jersey top with a plunging neckline, about as daring as Michael’s dress code would let her go. Diana couldn’t stand Tina, which meant she had to make an
extra effort to be nice to her. It was annoying.
‘Not for Tina, anyway,’ she muttered.
Michael said, impassively, ‘And you’re still seeing Brad?’
‘Of course. You know I’m still seeing Brad,’ Diana snapped.
‘Not really. I’m not that interested in your private life.
I guess that means he’s flying you somewhere in his personal jet on Friday?’
Diana bristled. ‘We have plans. We were going shopping.’
‘So he can pick you up a million-dollar trinket at
Tiffany’s.’ Michael sneered. ‘I understand. Forget I mentioned it.’
Diana chewed on her lip. The goddamn guy was as insufferable as ever. ‘Wait! Michael. What is it? I can cancel.’
‘It’s the New York Library Benefit Dinner.’ Michael tossed her a ticket. ‘Publishing’s biggest event this season. I’ve taken a table. If Ernie Foxton comes after me on my territory, I’m going to come after him on his.’
Diana dressed with more care than usual. She wanted to look good, but not too good. It wouldn’t do for that arrogant man to think she was chasing him. This was an important evening for the firm, she told herself. A statement of intent. That was what counted.
‘I think that’s the one,’ she said. She held up the plainest dress in her wardrobe, a silk jersey knit with a square neckline in gunmetal grey. ‘What do you think? I could wear my Paul Smith flats …’
‘Right, and why not add a pair of granny spectacles to complete the look,’ Claire said sarcastically. ‘You act like you’re afraid of something.’
‘Of course I’m not. I just don’t think I should overdo it,’ Diana protested.
Her friend looked at her quizzically. ‘This from the girl who wore a golden-mesh chain-mail Versace number to
the Fire and Ice Ball las{ month?’
‘So? I was being fiery,’
‘The fact that Felicity Metson and Jodie Goodfriend
were there had nothing to do with it, right?’ ‘Sometimes I do like to dress up.’
‘You could say that. You know you’re driving poor Brad crazy. He feels like he can look at you but not touch.’
Diana nodded. Sex was a sore point in their relationship. Somehow she just did not feel right about taking
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him to her bed yet. Maybe she was turning into an old fashioned girl, but she didn’t think so. He kept hinting about marriage. Maybe she was subconsciously holding out for a ring. Who the luck knew? She really didn’t herself.
‘He knows we’ll do it when the time is right.’
Claire made a face. ‘Do it? You sound like a teenage boy. How about make love?’
‘That too.’ Diana smiled. ‘You really think this is too plain?’
‘You want to put the fear of God into Ernie, right?’ ‘That’s right.’
‘Then you need to make a splash.’ Claire brushed her aside and delved into the walk-in closet. ‘Take the dark green. It sets off your eyes.’ She held up a floor-length Chloe gown in rich green velvet with a seed-pearl trim around the waist. It pleated gently over the breasts, to emphasise them, and then hugged her butt and tapered down into a fishtail. It was an exact fit; nothing but a tiny thong would slip under that.
‘I can’t,’ Diana muttered. ‘It looks too good.’
‘You sound like you’re more than afraid of that Michael guy,’ Claire said. ‘I think you’re in love with him. Otherwise why would you care?’
‘Nonsense.’ She snatched the gown out of her friend’s hand. ‘I don’t care what he thinks one way or the other. Give it to me. I’ll wear it.’
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She stepped out of the limo in a rustle of warm, rich velvet and looked up at the hotel. Several press snappers were lined up at the entrance, kept at bay by a red rope and a bunch of liveried security men. A warm murmur and low whistles greeted her arrival, at the sight of the tight plunge of dark green around her warm skin and glorious curves, the pearls which gleamed at her waist and again looped around her neck. Diana had borrowed Claire’s family heirloom, the Bryant necklace, a string of pearls the size of small marbles, with a marquise-cut emerald set in the centre. Against the snow, she was a burst of colour, green in the middle of winter. Her dark brows were shaped just a little, her full lips a daring red plum shade, nothing but a whisper of gloss blush on her sharp cheekbones and a light-brown shadow to bring out the sky blue of her eyes.
The paparazzi were all men and didn’t catalogue this. They just saw Diana Verity, the wife in the Foxton rumours, looking good enough to eat, like a Christmas present. Flashbulbs popped like firecrackers as she swept past, ignoring them, into the main hall.
Diana glanced around her at the rich guests. Among the uniform black tie of the men she saw faces she recognised: Rudolph Giuliani, the famous former mayor, Bobby De Niro and his gorgeous black girlfriend, Barry Diller, Ted Turner, apparently flown in from Atlanta… but this was publishing’s night. Super-agents and the CEOs of the large book houses were all here with their’
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wives, usually thin, blonde girls with bodies like Tina Armis, groomed to perfection and wearing black with diamonds dripping from their lobes.
She was a director, sure. But her company was small, fighting for survival. These were movers and shakers, and
at least one of them was out to destroy her.
She gave her name to a receptionist.
‘Diana Verity … Imperial …’ The girl scanned her seating chart. ‘With Michael Cicero, president.., ah, yes … table twelve. Mr Cicero has already arrived.’
‘Yes he has.’ Diana stood upright and turned round. Michael was standing behind her in a dark dinner jacket and plain white shirt. It looked as though it had been pressed just minutes ago. The tux picked out his brown eyes and thick, dark lashes and set off his black hair.
‘You shouldn’t bend over like that. It’s too much shape
for these old men to handle,’ Michael said softly in her
ear. ‘You could be arrested for giving them heart attacks.’
Diana blushed. ‘Come off it, Michael, OK? Look at the women in here. All New York men want is a size-zero teenager in beige Calvin Klein.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Men like tits and ass. Always
have done, always will do.’
‘Do you have to be so vulgar?’ Diana hissed.
He shrugged unrepentantly. ‘You asked babe, I told
you.’
‘I didn’t ask you anything.’
Michael looked down at her. Diana felt his eyes trailing across the plunge of her dress, fixing on her bottom, then running round her small waist and stopping right in the middle of her groin. To her dismay she felt a point of heat burning in between her legs. Her pussy tightened in a way she hadn’t felt since .
She stopped herself and drew a deep breath. Come on, Diana. You tried it with him and it didn’t work out. Anyway, he’s seeing that blond, skinny bimbette. You
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and him are like fire and petrol. Put you together and it’s just too much.
‘We’re not here to fight,’ Michael said. ‘Let’s try to suspend hostilities just for once. We’re here to announce ourselves.’
‘Agreed. We’re on table twelve.’ Diana recovered her poise. She wasn’t going to allow Michael to disturb her. She couldn’t afford that. She was dating Brad and in partnership with Michael, working for him, hadn’t she already decided that she needed to keep him at arm’s length?
‘Then let’s go.’ Michael offered her his arm, and she laid her fingers gently on his sleeve, as though contact with him might burn her.
The ballroom was packed. Everywhere you looked, moguls swept their wives towards tables round which throngs of waiters were hovering. Of all Manhattan’s charity evenings, this was one of the least showy and the most prestigious. There were no big-name rock stars, no themed decor here tonight. Rather there were speeches on literacy from leading educationalists and a short toast by the governor. Tonight was erudite, witty, about books and reading. And the competition for tickets was vast.
Diana moved under a chandelier and accepted a Bellini. She enjoyed fresh peach juice and champagne and she could sip it while try!ng to get her bearings. Many of the faces here she knew from her dinners as Mrs Foxton. There was Harry Evans, for example, and over there Tina Brown with Harvey Weinstein …
‘Diana, have you met Richard Frer?’ Michael said, introducing her to a tall man with a ramrod-straight back and a shock of white hair. ‘I worked with Richard when I was running Green Eggs. He’s a buyer for Barnes & Noble.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ Diana shook hands firmly and smiled up at the man. ‘I hope Michael has been telling’
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you about our games. We could supply to your Net operation.’
And they were off. Michael swam through the room like a feeding shark, greeting women and men, introducing Diana, while she gave them the pitch. She noticed the heads put discreetly together after they had passed, the way chatter rose up after Michael had moved through. And the reaction, she was relieved to note, was positive.
‘I love selling your games,’ the buyer at Amazon told them. ‘Parents write us thank-you notes. And that’s rare.’
‘Michael has such a touch with what kids want,’ Greg Bear from Waldenbooks said. ‘I’m sure he’s taught you a great deal. I have a six-year-old who went up two letter grades after a month on the Gecko Math game.’
To her surprise, Diana found she was really starting to enjoy herself. Socialising came easily to her, and the executives here were mostly aware of Imperial. Michael was a known quantity and they seemed willing to accept her without question because they knew him.
By the time the announcement for dinner was made, the room was buzzing. A new company was on the scene. Everyone knew that Michael Cicero, still in his thirties, the guy who kept bouncing back like a rubber ball, was a force to be reckoned with. Diana Verity actually looked like more than window dressing. This time last year she was just a trophy wife, they told themselves. But this was New York, where stranger things had happened.
Exhilarated, Michael shepherded Diana over to their table. It gave him the opportunity to rest his hand on the small of her back. He could feel her spine through the soft velvet and rest his thumb just on the curve of her incredible ass. How he missed that firm, curvy butt. The temptation to reach his hands down and just stroke and knead her skin was intense. But he managed not to do it. She was dating Bradley the Billionaire, Michael reminded himself sarcastically. After the divorce Diana has
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rebounded real fast. Brad would be a big step up for her. Mansions, townhouses, private jets, everybody knew about the Bailey fortune.
I’ll never have enough money to satisfy a girl like her, Michael thought. And women who liked men with money were anathema to him. Diana did her job well. That was all he should care about.
If he could just stop thinking about her.
Their table was a good one, just two back from the centre of the room. Michael grinned. All that string pulling had definitely paid off. He could see the floor, see if there was anybody else he should be talking to. And the industry could see him. Thanks to Diana, virtually the only lady present wearing any kind of colour, they stood out as though she was wearing a billboard.