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It took almost two weeks for Becky to find out. Sharon had a good explanation, but it didn’t help her much.
‘You were on honeymoon,’ she’d said, shrugging. ‘Nobody wants to be arsed on honeymoon, do they? And besides, you were so happy. I couldn’t bring myself to bring you any bad news.’
Becky was mad, but she understood. She was so in love with Logan she could hardly see straight. After that first hot, sweet session with him, they hadn’t left the cottage for the entire next day. They had made do with whatever food was in the house. Logan had gone downstairs to fetch thick slices of crusty bread and cheese and glossy red apples.
‘I don’t want you moving from my bed,’ Logan had half growled, and the food had tasted perfect, almost as though she had never tasted apples before, never tasted sharp, crumbly Cheshire. They needed the food for more grappling. Though she loved Logan, was madly, exquisitely, almost painfully in love with him, when he grabbed her slim frame and pinned her down, stroking her thighs, her butt, licking between her legs and thrusting himself into her, it was raw and animal, and Becky sweated, and panted, and needed food.
They took showers together that wound up with more sex, Logan getting so aroused from soaping her belly and breasts with his hands that he couldn’t even make it back to the bedroom. The curtains stayed drawn, and they made love in front of a roaring fire downstairs in the tiny drawing room. The following day they decamped back to Fairfield, but Becky didn’t do any work. How could she, when there was a huge double bed in her room? Logan and she had eventually emerged, holding hands, to get food and hew clothes, but he had been all over her, stroking her butt through her jeans, nuzzling at her neck, breathing in the scent of her, like an animal claiming possession. And Sharon had tried to keep out of the way, run the hotels and not bother her boss. Only now she had to.
‘More cancellations.’ That had been putting it mildly. Over fifty per cent of the guests at the Lancaster London had asked for their money back on the Dickens holiday that Becky had bust her ass organizing, and in the Lancaster Edinburgh the Valentine’s Day.bookings they’d had just pulled out - nine guests, a party from Palm Beach, Florida - with no explanation. ‘I’m hearing bad things from New York, apparently. That kind of thing. I sent the money back. I thought you’-d want that. And the cushions,’ Sharon added hastily.
‘Yeah, yeah. You did the right thing.’ Becky had a sudden impulse to bite her nails. They had been doing great, but they had also been spending a lot of money. Without the guests and their huge payments,
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Lancaster would experience what was politely referred to as a ‘cash flow’ crisis.
With guests or without them, staff had to be paid. Mortgages had to be paid. She had a cushion, of course, but this took a big bite out of it. Any more, and she might start needing a bridging loan.
They hadn’t been operating long enough to avoid a crisis. Becky’s
whole business was word of mouth. If it went bad …
She paced up and down the library.
‘This is Lita Conran. That goddamn bitch. I thought we had an agreement.’
‘Maybe truce time is over.’
‘Maybe.’ Becky’s face was grim. ‘I’m not going to let her destroy me. Sharon, call the banks. Set up a meeting on a line of credit. I can play this game as hard as she can.’
Sharon nodded and went to pick up the phone, but it rang as she was reaching for it.
‘Good morning, Lancaster Hotels,’ she said. Her eyebrows shot up.
‘Hold on a second. I’ll see if she’s available to speak to you.’ She cupped her hand over the receiver. ‘She says it’s P,.osalita Conran.’ Becky snatched the phone from her.
‘The reservation is under Lancaster. Baron Lancaster,’ Pete Bessel said. He was standing at the entrance of Wilton’s, in Piccadilly, the famous fish restaurant that was a preferred haunt of’the London upper classes and politicians. He already hated it. For one thing, he wasn’t big on fish. And for another, the dim light and low-pitched, polite hum made him feel shabby, as though his shoes didn’t fit right. He shifted a little in his expensive Saks suit and wished he was wearing something, well, more British. More Savile R.ow.
But whatever. P,.upert wanted to be met here, and fight now R-upert’s giant, whiny ego had to be placated. He was close to bringing his whispering campaign out in the open. The recapture of Costa Coffee had already gotten Pete a huge bonus from the Doheny board. Everything was proceeding according to plan. With the lawsuits and the press interest, gun-shy clients would avoid New Wave like the plague. He didn’t give a shit about the Becky situation, but the press here might, and that would help Bessel destroy Lita.
‘His lordship is already here, sir. Let me take you to him.’ The maitre d’ led Bessel through the tables to one at the back of the room. Normally Bessel would be insulted, but he had figured out that the Brits didn’t care about tables being visible. In fact, they seemed to prefer
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discretion. Whatever, there would be no more discretion for lupert Lancaster.
He saw Rupert had already gotten himself a large Martini. That guy was shaping up to be a regular soak, Bessel thought disapprovingly. And he loved the fine-milled white powder just a little too much. Give the guy a spoon and he wants to snort the whole vial. They had been at Tramps last night, the hot nightclub, and Rupert had been loud, talking ten miles a minute on the drugs, his arms each around a couple of common little tarts with big tits … girls that looked barely out of school.
‘Hi, Pete,’ Rupert said, not getting up.
‘Hi, there.’ Pete sat down. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Really? I don’t think I can even manage a salad,’ Rupert gabbled. Of course not, you coke-head. You’re on that Colombian diet powder, Bessel thought. ‘I think I’ll try the bouillabaisse. Now, dreary thought it might be, we have to talk a little business.’
‘Her guests are cancelling,’ Rupert said. ‘There are expenses.’ He actually rubbed his hands.
‘I’ve arranged for another interview with Doreen Evans, as well as Felicity Manners and Richard Farringdon. The last two write for the Daily Mail and the Express. They’re interested in the romance angle, your side of the story. The gallant English peer forced from his ancient home by the American upstart,’ Bessel said, unable to contain a sneer. Luckily, Rupert wasn’t paying any attention. ‘And then his company stolen from him by another American girl, his fiancee. Who betrayed him.’
Rupert nodded. ‘And Becky” also stole my hotel plans.’
Bessel grinned. The peer was on the same page at least. He dropped his voice. ‘Yes. I’ve sent some documentation to your hotel room. It looks very realistic. We found a guy in Brooklyn that can fake postmarks. He stole some postal equipment. It looks like you registered both business plans years ago. After the interviews, we file the lawsuit. Then we hold a press conference to announce it.’ Bessel grinned. ‘Whatever happens with the suit, their businesses will die. Neither one of their client bases likes controversy. But remember, today you have to look, like, heartbroken. Not vengeful. Saddened.’
Rupert looked contemptuously at the little man. He had Brylcreem on his hair, like some witchdoctor hawking snake oil.
‘I think I can handle it,’ Rupert said.
Lita arrived at Fairfield at eight p.m. that night. She had spent a day in the office trying to project total unconcern, not even calling the Costa
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executives. She told everyone but Harry Weiss that this was expected, that it was nothing to worry about. But she still seethed.
Becky Lancaster’s wild accusations, her denials - should she believe them? Or were they just a ploy to stop Lira taking revenge?
She drove down to Fairfield herself to find out. She took her own car. The long drive, the rearing lions on pillars, were everything she remembered from years ago. It was a bitterly cold country night, with bright stars, and Lira even screeched to a halt on a wooded road as a startled doe ran past her, its big eyes lit up, terrified, in the glare of her headlights.
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Logan heard the crunch of tyres on the drive.
‘She’s here,’ he said. He put one hand on Becky’s shoulder, his thick fingers rubbing her smooth skin. She could feel him standing behind her protectively, his body braced firm against the threat. ‘Want me to stay?’
‘Not unless she came down here with muscle.’ Becky smiled faintly, although her stomach was churning furiously. I’ll be OK. I need to find out where I stand with this bitch.’
‘Let me at least let her in.’ Logan grinned. ‘I’m curious.’
The bell buzzed. They both leapt out of their seats, but Logan was faster.
‘ Will,’ Becky hissed. Too late - he had lifted the latch and opened the ancient, heavy wooden door.
A girl stood there, about Becky’s age, almost a foot shorter. She was curvy, with an hourglass figure poured into tan leather pants with fringes and a matching cashmere jumper that clung to impressive tits. She had matched them with high-heeled boots that made her almost as tall as Becky, and her dark hair tumbled loose and sleek around her shoulders, with a slight, tousled kink to it. She had dark, flashing eyes, cafi-au-lait skin and full make-up. Logan’s eyes flickered over the thick
mascara, the glossy, lined lips and the sheer blush on her cheeks. ‘I’m—’
‘Yes, I know.’ Logan looked down into her eyes coldly. She returned his stare with just as much steel. ‘My wife is waiting for you in the otce.’
‘Thank you,’ Lira said, striding past him. ‘I know the way.’ Logan admired her butt on the way past. He almost wanted to watch. She was everything his wife wasn’t - flashy, modern, sassy, over the top. Tons of make-up, skin-tight clothes. She looked good; she just wasn’t his type. Logan flashed on Becky’s tiny, delicate-breasts with their rosebud nipples, high and tight and pink… He felt a stiffening between his legs, and beat a hasty retreat up the stairs. You couldn’t go around comparing Becky with other chicks, certainly not while they had company. He wanted her again now. Cold-shower time.
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Logan wasn’t worried about Lita. She was a wildcat, but so was his wife if you scratched the surface. Becky could handle herself. Maybe Lita should have brought reinforcements.
Becky sat in her favourite burgundy leather armchair with a file on her lap, pretending to be reading. She looked up idly as Lita Conran
stomped in and shut the door firmly.
‘Have a seat,’ Becky said.
Lita stood there and glanced around the room. ‘I see the place hasn’t changed much.’
‘Not in this part of the house.’ I’ll be damned if I get up for her, Becky thought. ‘Our guest rooms have bathrooms, but they’re discreet.’
‘Discreet.’ Lira rolled the word around her tongue sarcastically. ‘We haven’t had much of that, lately, have we?’
‘Apparently not.’ Becky had to fight to stay seated. ‘I’ve had three sets of bookings cancel. Each guest pays up to ten thousand pounds a week. I’ve had entire parties blow me off at the last minute. And my costs stay constant. I assume you know what constant costs plus less revenue equals?’
‘Hmm, let me see.’ Lita frowned, as if she were trying to figure it out. ‘Could it be … the same thing that’s happening to New Wave when my accounts cancel? I know you’re connected on the East Coast, Lancaster, through your mom’s family. Don’t tell me you had nothing to do with Costa.’
‘Who’s he?’ Becky asked blankly. ‘And technically the name’s Logan now. But most people still use Becky.’
‘Who’s he? It’s not a he.’ Lita’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me you don’t know what’s been happening to New Wave? That you had nothing to do with it?’
‘Oh, and this “attack is the best form of defence” is all you could come up with?’ Becky shot back. ‘Like you didn’t send one of your PP, snakes out to the States and Europe to spread God knows what rumours around Lancaster Hotels?’
‘You haven’t read anything in the press, have you?’
‘No, but I’m sure you’re spreading private rumours. Yourself.’ Lira stared at her in astonishment. The, sugar? I’m a girl from the Bronx. I don’t mix with your tennis-playing, weak-chinned set. I can’t stand that social register crap.’
‘And I don’t know who the hell Costa is.’
‘It’s a company.’ Lita tried to assess the blonde girl’s posture. She didn’t look like she was lying but, then again, she might just be a hell of an actress. ‘Costa Coffee.’
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‘Whatever. It had nothing to do with me.’ Becky was impatient. ‘I care about Lancaster. I’ve worked too hard on this goddamn company to watch it thrown away because you—’
‘I’ve done nothing.’ Lira stated it so flatly that Becky was forced to believe her. ‘Nothing. Except try to build my client list. So let’s just assume, for the moment, that you’ve done nothing either.’
‘OK,’ Becky said guardedly. ‘In that case I see two possibilities. One,
coincidence. Two—’ ‘Rupert.’ ‘Exactly.’
‘There is no other connection between us.’
Becky stared at her guest for a long second, then said, ‘Would you like a drink?’
Over bourbon - ‘Jack and Coke. I can’t stand that aged malt liquor stuff. It tastes like a pile of mouldy wood,’ Lita said - she gave Becky the whole stoW. Everything from walking into II, upert’s office, to the shoot, the kiss, the dinner with her family, and then the fiasco with Modem Commercials.
‘You gave him an open line of credit?’ Becky asked, horrified. Lira actually blushed.
‘I was in love with him. And he’s a smooth talker.’
‘I hear that.’
‘He presented it to me like it was the best thing for me. Like he didn’t need a big lump sum, he could use a line from my account to take “only what he needed”.’ Lita shook her head. ‘My father saw right through him, you know.’
‘I like to think mine would “have, too.’ Becky hesitated. ‘Do you think he ever … loved you?’
Lita smiled at the look on the other girl’s face. ‘That’s cool, you don’t