Molly's hand was still suspended in the air, as if she were mesmerized by the shimmer of the stone. “Good grief,” she said. “Isn't it a bit…uh…flashy?”
“Not compared to some of the other rocks that you'll see tonight,” Jake said. “Believe me, by ten
P.M.
, you'll think it's understated.”
“Let's go, lovebirds!” called Tom Amadeo from the elevator. “Chop chop!”
Molly started forward, but Jake stopped her again. “Wait,” he said. “You understand that this is serious?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You're worried?” She seemed to be realizing for the first time that she had the power to destroy him with one careless sentence.
“No,” Jake said. “I just want to confirm that you're ready. It's not too late to skip this event if you don't feel prepared.”
“You
are
worried. I was joking about your stock. I wouldn't actually say those things in public.”
“Good. It wouldn't go over well.”
There was a strange look on her face. “Imagine that,” she said. “You, dependent on me. If I were to make a mistake and expose your plan, you'd be ruined, wouldn't you? You could lose everything. Your job, your reputation…”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Jake said curtly. “That was my point.” He wondered if Amanda might have been the better choice, after all. Risking trouble with the Harpers was daunting, but at least he would know what he was getting himself into. Molly Shaw had more going on behind her amber-colored eyes than he understood.
“I won't make any mistakes,” Molly said. “I could harm you intentionally, but why would I do that? I don't have any reason to want to ruin your life. Do I?”
“No,” Jake said. He assumed that she was teasing him. He knew of no reason why she would want to destroy him, and several reasons why it would benefit her not to. That was why he was willing to trust her.
She smiled like the Mona Lisa. “Well, if you're sure about that, then you don't need to worry, do you? Your secret is safe with me.”
The flashbulbs began to pop as Jake stepped out of the limousine. In a move choreographed by Tom for maximum impact, Jake and Molly had gone down in the private elevator, slipped out through a hidden back entrance, and gotten into the car, which had driven them halfway around the block to the main entrance of the Berenger Grand and released them at the foot of the red carpet. It was dark, but tall floodlamps threw a dazzling glow over the scene, illuminating the arriving guests for the benefit of the photographers and television cameramen massed outside. Closed-circuit cameras filmed each arrival's progress up the red carpet, transmitting their smiles and waves live to a giant screen suspended like a billboard above the main entrance. There was an identical screen and speakers inside the ballroom, allowing the partygoers to hear some of the noise from outside, and to enjoy the anticipatory excitement of knowing who was about to walk in. Celebrities and socialites enjoyed gawking as much as anyone in the crowd of spectators outside.
Velvet ropes and security guards held back the crowd of onlookers, who pressed forward hoping to glimpse a late-arriving movie star, or even to be selected for admission into the party. At the opening of the first Berenger hotel—the success of which was considered a textbook example of brilliant marketing—Jake had come up with the idea of having the security staff choose people from the crowd to invite inside. He had gone more for the glamorous and the glittery types then, because he had needed them, but the policy had changed as Berenger grew.
His staff was now instructed to choose without sticking to any obvious category of person. Dressing fabulously or looking like a model was not necessarily an entry ticket. The staff always chose a few of those hopefuls, but they also knew to select apparently at random: a group of giggling teenage girls from NYU, a middle-aged couple from New Jersey, a freelance photographer, a cheerful octogenarian holding a sign that said “Pick Me! I'm Old and Bored!”
In actuality, the hundred people that the security staff now chose, checked, and admitted did fall into a very specific category, just not an easily identifiable one. They might not even be able to afford a room at a Berenger hotel, but they were the ones who fueled the celebrity industry. They were the people who read
People
and the
Star
and watched
E!
on TV. Their money and interest supported the world that Jake depended on, and he felt that he owed them. Plus, he was no fool. The policy ensured a huge crowd outside every Berenger event. The crowd drew the celebrities, who drew the media, who had helped build Berenger into a multibillion-dollar corporation.
Jake turned back to the car and extended his hand to Molly. As she had been taught, she pivoted on the limousine seat, swung her legs out, placed her feet on the curb, took his hand, and rose gracefully to a standing position beside him. He felt her body go rigid, and her fingers tighten involuntarily around his as the throng of journalists and spectators began to shout. Flashbulbs exploded from every direction, and he could hear the cameras shooting—an appropriate verb, because the sound was as rapid and mechanical as automatic gunfire.
Molly pressed up against his side, surprisingly close, and Jake guessed that it was not because of any prior instruction. The chaotic scene was more than she had expected. There was really no way to prepare someone to face the wall of paparazzi for the first time, and he didn't blame her for being alarmed. It wasn't so much a sea of photographers as it was an enormous cluster of impersonal lenses; huge, black, and gleaming, they were jammed together—seemingly piled on one another, in an alien mass of shiny, clicking circles.
Jake! Jake! Over here! When is the wedding?
Molly, look over here! Show us the ring!
Jake! Did you invite Skye to the party? What did she say about your engagement?
Molly! How did you catch America's most eligible bachelor? Was he dating you and Skye at the same time?
Molly looked at Jake, and he saw that although her mouth was smiling, her eyes were wide and frightened. He bent to murmur into her ear, aware that the cameras were capturing the apparent intimacy of the moment. “You're doing fine,” he said. “The people out here are mostly freelancers and local press. We aren't taking questions from them now—we're supposed to talk first to the journalists waiting in the lobby. We'll stand here for a minute and then walk inside.”
She nodded and they stood, posing hand-in-hand, turning from side to side to face the cameras on either side of the red carpet.
Molly! What name are you using for your next book?
Molly! Was Andre DuPre based on Jake?
It was time to move inside. Jake walked Molly forward up the carpet, past the photographers, and then saw something very unexpected. He should have expected it, as Molly should have, but judging by the look on her face, she was as surprised as he. Half of the people close to the velvet ropes were not hopefuls in evening dress. They were bundled in warm coats, as if they had been camping out by the front of the hotel all day, determined to secure their spots. They were holding books—paperback and hardbound versions of
Pirate Gold,
and they were waving them and calling Molly's name.
“I'll be damned,” Jake said, reluctantly impressed.
“I think they want me to sign,” Molly said in a small, astonished voice. “What should I do?”
Jake reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a gold-plated Berenger Corporation pen, and handed it to her. “Sign,” he said. “I'll wait.”
T
he ballroom of the Berenger Grand was a soaring space of glass and golden sandstone that redefined the concept of Modern American Elegance, at least according to Sir Harry Smythe, who—as a Brit—claimed to have an impartial perspective on the subject. He was not impartial about his own work on the redesign of the hotel, which he described as “a groundbreaking marriage of classical architecture to a daring and prophetic vision for the future.”
“Did you say marriage?” asked the gossip columnist for
Style Weekly.
“What do you think of Jake Berenger's fiancée?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Sir Harry coldly, and Jake quickly stepped in. He had been standing just a few feet away, listening while an Associated Press reporter asked Molly about the engagement and her future plans. It was their third consecutive interview. Jake had monitored Molly's answers carefully at first, ready to intervene if necessary, but she had been parroting Tom's prepared quotes so perfectly that he had gradually relaxed and tuned out. Sir Harry was just behind him, also giving interviews, and the prickly Brit had a reputation for telling reporters that he was “unable to answer that question, because it is simply too stupid.”
“Sir Harry hasn't met Molly yet,” Jake said to the columnist. “He's been busy with a new project in Cairo.”
Sir Harry nodded, gratified. “My design for the Baraka monument will reflect the Old Kingdom masterpieces of the fourth Pharaonic dynasty,” he said, “and yet, it will be one more step in my epic journey to cast off the fetters of the past—”
Jake turned back to Molly. Sir Harry's nose was red, and he looked as if he had knocked back a few too many vodka martinis, but the man had delivered a damned good-looking hotel, and he had earned the right to orate.
It was almost ten
P.M.
and the ballroom was packed with people. Between Molly's impromptu book signing and the phalanx of journalists lined up inside the lobby, it had taken them an hour to progress from the limousine to the actual party. The opening was an obvious success, and after this last interview, Jake's plan was to make a pass through the crowd, greet a few key people, and then get out of there. Despite his regular presence at events like this—or perhaps because of it—he did not enjoy parties. The curious stares and the stultifying small talk wore on him, and he usually tried to escape once he'd achieved his objectives of chatting with any useful business contacts and being photographed with his date-of-the-moment.
“It was Jake's decision to settle down,” Molly was saying to the reporter. “He wanted stability. He was tired of having the kind of life that distracted him from his commitment to Berenger Corporation.”
Jake watched, pleased, as she delivered the message without a single misstep. She sounded a little wooden, but that was fine. The reporter was nodding and writing, and things seemed to be under control.
Tom Amadeo appeared suddenly on the edge of the crowd and beckoned to Jake. “Problem,” he said. “There's a blonde over there telling the guy from the
Post
that she was responsible for introducing you to Molly, and he's writing it down like the Lord's own gospel.”
“Where?” Jake asked.
Tom pointed. “There. I've seen her before—she's some kind of high-society matchmaker. Do you know her? If you don't, I'm having her tossed out of here on her skinny little butt.”
Jake looked where Tom was pointing. It was none other than Elaine Newberg, wearing a black-and-white gown, opera-length gloves, and a pearl choker. Next to her stood Carter McKee in a rumpled tuxedo and a fuchsia bow tie. He was holding a wineglass in one hand and a microcassette recorder in the other. Elaine was speaking to the
New York Post
reporter, who looked much too interested in whatever she was saying.
“I know her,” he said. “And him. They're friends of Molly's.”
“Well, then, can Molly go over there and tell her friends to quit fucking with my PR campaign? They are making me very unhappy.”
Molly was still talking to the reporter. It occurred to Jake that her friends had been at Gold Bay when he had made—and she had rejected—his first offer. She was bound by a confidentiality agreement now, but she hadn't been then, and it was very possible that she had gone back to her cottage that day and told them about his proposal.
Not good,
he thought. If they knew the truth, then he was dependent on the discretion of a celebrity matchmaker and an ambitious journalist—neither one an acceptable security risk. Briefly, he told Tom of his suspicions.
Tom shrugged philosophically. “Okay,” he said. “Damage control time. What's it going to take to keep them quiet?”
“I don't know about the woman,” Jake said. “But I promised Molly that I would give the guy an interview.”
“Can he write? Not that it matters. If he's satisfied with an interview, we're getting off cheap. He might even turn out to be useful, who knows? And if the blonde wants credit for the introduction, I'm willing to negotiate. Okay—your lovely fiancée is busy here, so how about you and I go over and say hello to our new friends.”
“Mr. Berenger,” said Elaine warmly as Jake approached, with Tom on his heels. “The redesign is absolute perfection. I keep an apartment in New York, of course, but I used to dine at the Grand restaurant whenever I was in town. Darling Henri always insisted on personally making me his white truffle risotto. How is he?”
“Retired,” Jake said. Henri LeDuc, the Grand Hotel's executive chef, had been in the middle of one of his legendary screaming tantrums when he had collapsed from nervous exhaustion, falling facedown into a heap of freshly julienned carrots. He had returned to his native Provence to recover, self-medicating with foie gras and vintage Bordeaux, and Jake had replaced him with a young female chef from San Francisco, respected for her innovative Eurasian fusion cuisine and her lack of desire to abuse the kitchen staff.
Elaine clucked her tongue at the news. “Well, that explains the coconut prawns,” she said. “Henri never approved of the frivolous use of coconut.”
Tom cleared his throat impatiently, and Jake said, “May we talk to you for a minute?”
“Of course,” Elaine said. She smiled meaningfully at the
Post
reporter. “Do excuse us.”
They walked over to an unoccupied area near the doors to the inner courtyard, now sealed against the January cold.
“Does Molly know that you're here?” Jake asked. Somehow, he needed to find out whether they knew about Operation Family Man, and then, if they did, what it would take to buy their silence.