Flawless (61 page)

“And how do
you
look at it, Dr. Cannons?”

“If the war is life versus death, then we all lose the war,” said the doctor, philosophically. “You may die of cancer. You may die of something else. But you will die. So I would say you’ve won the battle. But you know, that’s pretty good news.” He chuckled. “Not many men your age survive lung cancer. Not many people survive it, period. You are
in remission
, Mr. O’Donnell. Be happy!”

“I am happy, doc,” said Brogan, truthfully. He’d never been one for cartwheels, or big, outward displays of emotion. But he wanted his life back so badly he could taste it. To be healthy again would be wonderful. To be back in his own home, back at work, and most of all to be back with Diana—that would be better still. Everything came back to Diana in the end.

“How soon can I check out of this dump?”

“Not so fast,” said the doctor. “Now that you’re off the chemo, you can go home for an extended visit very soon, perhaps even tomorrow.”

“How about today?”

“Tomorrow,” said the doctor firmly. “After that I’d like you back in for more tests and for some intensive rehab. Physio, all of that good stuff. You don’t want to fall at the final hurdle by rushing back to work too soon.” Clocking Brogan’s skeptical frown he added, “Stress is a factor in almost all recurrent cancers, you know. That’s not mumbo jumbo; it’s proven medical fact.”

“I’ll tell you what’s a fact,” said Brogan. “This place stresses me out a whole lot more than work. I need to get out of here.”

Once Dr. Cannons had left, he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the deep pleasure of knowing that, at last, his nightmare was coming to an end. He was in remission. Diana had left Danny and was already living back at home. It would only be a matter of time before they were together again, properly, as man and wife. She’d have another child,
his
child, and in the meantime he’d raise her baby with Danny as his own.

Perhaps strangely for such a jealous, competitive man, Brogan genuinely wasn’t concerned about Diana’s baby not being his. It was the child that had brought her back to him. Had she not been pregnant, and in need of help, he doubted she would ever have moved back in. For him, that was reason enough to love it.

Despite the petty disappointments of the last month—he’d been irritated when the British newspapers balked at printing
the Cameron Drummond Murray pictures—thanks to Aidan, things were looking good on the business front too. Often, when a CEO is absent for an extended period, the stock price suffers, especially when the CEO is as involved and as closely identified with the company as Brogan was with O’Donnell Mining Corp. But OMC shares were at a record high. The market had reacted very favorably to his move into Canada, not least because he’d bought his new diamond mines at an astonishingly low price.

Trade Fair had been neutralized for the foreseeable future, with Scarlett neck-deep in family problems on the other side of the Atlantic. Better yet, by gratifying coincidence, the whining little turd from the BBC who had produced her radio program had been murdered. Clearly, Brogan was not the guy’s only enemy.

Opening his eyes, he turned his head wearily to look at the clock on the wall. Ten to twelve. Diana should be here in a few minutes. He might be in remission, but he was still exhausted, and his heavy eyelids were already flickering shut when the two men entered.

“Brogan O’Donnell?”

Wearing a black suit and thin black tie, his pinched, weasel face betraying no emotion, the guy must be either an undertaker or a cop. In either case, Brogan figured, he had the wrong room.

“Last time I checked,” he said drily. “Who are you?”

“I’m Special Agent Brown, and this is my colleague, Agent Da Luca. FBI.”

They flashed their badges so quickly that they could have been from the gas company for all Brogan knew.

“I see,” he said, coughing weakly. “And how can I help you gentlemen?”

“Mr. O’Donnell, I am placing you under arrest,” said the weasel, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his inside jacket pocket. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do choose—”

“Wait a minute,” said Brogan, interrupting him. “For one thing, you don’t need those,” he looked at the handcuffs. “I couldn’t run, even if I wanted to.”

Agent Brown looked at the various drips and monitors to which Brogan was connected and grudgingly put the handcuffs back in his pocket.

“Am I allowed to know what I’m being arrested for?”

At that moment, Diana walked in. Still looking ashen from the shock of what she’d read this morning, her face had set into a mask of determination.

Brogan noticed the change immediately.

“Hello, darling,” he said, concerned. “Is something wrong?”

Reaching into her purse, Diana pulled out the will documents Aidan had asked her to deliver and pressed them into his hand.

“I’m moving out,” she said.

“Murder,” said Agent Brown. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder.”

“Why?” Gripping tightly onto Diana’s hand, Brogan ignored the agent. “What’s happened? Whatever it is, I’m sure we can work it out.”

“I saw the pictures,” she said, wrenching her hand free.

“What pictures?”

“
The
pictures!” she snapped. “Of Cameron Drummond Murray. Or are you and Leach sexually blackmailing some other poor bastard this week?”

“Now listen,” said Brogan, panicked. “I can explain.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can! You always can.” Diana laughed bitterly. “Just like you can explain your plans to close down the Yakutian mine.”

“That was a business decision,” said Brogan. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“No,” said Diana, “but you
do
expect me to have another child with you. Nice of you to discuss that with Aidan before discussing it with me! And to think I really believed you this time. I truly believed you’d changed.”

“I
have
changed!” Brogan’s voice was rising. “Please, Di, don’t leave me now. Don’t do this. At least hear my side of the story.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt this touching moment,” said Agent Brown, not looking remotely sorry. “But I’m afraid I really
must
arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Andrew Gordon. You have the right to an attorney—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up,” snapped Brogan. “I know my rights. You sound like a bad episode of
Law and Order
. I had nothing to do with the murder of that journalist, although I will say that it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. You can quote me on that, Agent Brown.”

Diana, who had been on the point of leaving, was now rooted to the spot, staring at Brogan wide-eyed.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You didn’t…you wouldn’t?”

“Of course I didn’t!” shouted Brogan, hoarsely. What little energy he had was deserting him. “Diana, I had nothing to do with this! Nothing! Surely you believe me?”

Wrapping both arms protectively over her pregnant belly, she shook her head sadly.

“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is that it’s over between us, Brogan. It is. For good this time.”

Walking down the corridor moments later, blinded by tears, she bumped in to Dr. Cannons. With his thick, reddish-blond hair and bright-blue eyes, he looked like the promise of youth embodied in human form: strong, capable, good. To Diana he might have been a creature from another planet.

“It’s incredible news, isn’t it?” he said, mistaking her tears for tears of joy. “He’s in full remission. You’ll have him home in the morning.”

But Diana merely looked at him sadly and walked away.

J
ULY IN
L
OS
Angeles was even hotter than usual, with temperatures in the valley regularly topping the hundred-degree mark. At the beach, where the Pacific breezes took the edge off the punishing sun, tourists fought for space with the locals, crowding into cafés and restaurants like bees into a too-small hive. Young girls rollerbladed along the boardwalks, flashing their washboard stomachs and bronze limbs in shorts and bikini tops, while the tired fathers pushing their kids on the beachside swings pretended not to be checking them out. Everywhere you looked kids were laughing, couples kissing. Life seemed to blossom here in the summer sunshine.

Danny Meyer missed New York.

“Those diamonds look incredible against your skin.” He was holding one of Scarlett’s most detailed and expensive necklaces against the smooth, café au lait throat of Kiki Gillette, one of Jake’s clients who had recently begun buying from Tyler Brett. For once, he wasn’t bullshitting. Kiki’s skin was flawless, and the necklace lit her up magically.

“I love it,” she said wistfully, admiring herself in the mirror. “I do love it. It’s just the price, you know?”

“You should have it,” said Danny. “We can work something out.”

They were standing in the living room of Kiki’s glass-fronted beach house, one of the largest, grandest properties on Malibu’s exclusive Colony. Over Danny’s right shoulder, an unbroken view of the Pacific, sparkling as if sprinkled with celestial diamond dust, stretched to the horizon beneath a cloudless sky. In front of him was Kiki, a twenty-nine-year-old former aerobics instructor turned producer’s wife, staring at her reflection in an antique Venetian silver mirror. Her perfectly toned behind, giftwrapped in skintight Paige denim, brushed against Danny’s groin as he held the necklace around her throat, so close that he couldn’t help but breathe in her perfume and warmth. But he felt nothing.

Was he crazy to be missing home? It was weird, but not until he’d moved out to LA to help Jake claw back some of their business had he realized that somewhere along the line, New York had become home. He’d always be a North London boy at heart. But it was the noise and dirt of Manhattan, the greasy hot dogs, the insanely aggressive cab drivers that he longed for, standing in this beautiful house with the beautiful woman and the beautiful view.

That and his darling Diana.

“What kind of a deal do you think you could do me?”

Kiki turned around to face him. The naughty twinkle in her eye, combined with her giveaway body language—the subtle forward thrust of the hips and arching of the lower back—left Danny in no doubt that she would happily jump into bed with him if he asked. But his libido seemed to have gone into hibernation.

“I’ll have to talk to Jake, of course,” he said, smiling while taking a step back from her, “but I reckon we could let you have it at cost.”

Jake was going to string him up by the balls. He kept telling him not to cut deals, but Danny knew that they were never going to steal a march on Tyler Brett if they didn’t get creative with their pricing, at least in the beginning.

“You can’t send me out onto the battle field, then tell me I can’t use my gun,” he insisted, the last time Jake had chewed him out for closing a deal at a loss. “Have you seen Brett’s prices lately?”

Jake had seen them. Ever since he’d partnered up with a new supplier in Zaire, Tyler Brett had been flogging diamonds to the likes of Kiki Gillette for about the same amount as Swarovski charged for their fucking crystals. Jake and Danny’s stones were higher quality, and Scarlett’s workmanship was second to none. But the differential was insanely huge. In the end, unless the Meyer brothers could score a similar deal and pass on economies of scale to their clients, there was no way they’d be able to compete.

In the short term, however, with Scarlett stuck in Scotland and Jake stuck at Flawless, and in the absence of the massive injection of cash they would need to make such a deal, it was Danny’s job to try and turn the tide of defections that had been overwhelming his brother. And that meant cutting prices.

“I’ll tell you what.” Kiki smiled. She was disappointed that Jake’s equally gorgeous brother clearly wasn’t going to sleep with her—Danny was rough, but only Jake, it seemed, was ready—but it had been a long time since she’d coveted something as much as she did this necklace. “If you can let me hold onto it for a few days, so I can try to convince my husband, I think we may end up having a deal.”

Danny hesitated. They weren’t insured to leave valuable pieces like this one with clients. Besides, the necklace was officially the property of Flawless, not Solomon Stones. If this chick damaged it or lost it, he’d be personally liable to the tune of almost a quarter of a million dollars.

“OK,” he said, forcing the fear out of his voice. First rule of salesmanship: never sound like you’re desperate. “That’s not a problem. How about I drop by on Friday and we can talk some more then?”

“Sounds good.” Kiki looked at him mischievously. “Of course, I’m home alone most afternoons. So if you needed to drive out and, you know, check on the merchandise before Friday, you’d be more than welcome.”

I bet I would
, thought Danny, baffled yet again by the fact that he didn’t seem to fancy this stunning girl. He wondered if the current, comatose state of his dick was going to become permanent—if this was it for him and sex—and wasn’t sure whether to hope that it was or it wasn’t.