Authors: Harold Robbins
She gave me a friendly cheek-to-cheek greeting on each cheek, Hollywood style.
I wanted to ask her who “the rest of us” were who deserved credit, other than Hiram for spending thirty seconds writing a check, but I just smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Rich bitch that she was, her outfit was gorgeous. “I love your outfit.”
She wore a couture beaded white evening dress that complemented her golden tanned skin. Around her neck was an elaborate twenty-four-stone drop emerald necklace and matching earrings. No doubt worth millions, I quickly calculated in my head. I couldn’t help but notice her sparkling diamond ring on her left hand that almost blinded me when I approached.
I hadn’t seen her in a couple of months and she looked like she had taken off years…. I was sure a surgeon’s knife had a lot to do with it. The perfectly white teeth she flashed were also the best smile money could buy.
Yes, I was petty and spiteful when it came to Hiram’s wife. Besides being abundantly endowed with the beauty, grace, and charm that I had been so meagerly rationed with, she had married billions. And not once did she have to use her teeny-weenie little brain for anything.
Prior to being Mrs. Hiram Piedmont III, she was Angela St. John, a not-too-famous actress in Hollywood.
Hiram had met her in Beverly Hills buying a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, and it had been love at first sight as soon as Angela found out he was a billionaire.
That was nearly five years ago, when Angela was an actress pushing forty, a sin in Hollywood, where the only admired feminine attribute over forty was a bustline. She had been mostly a pretty showpiece in movies, often cast as the Other Woman, and that fit her personality nicely. She had a bitchy quality about her, part of that unique substance called charisma that movie stars must possess.
Her acting was not uncommonly described as unintentionally funny.
Okay, that wasn’t really true, but I still didn’t like the woman, though sometimes I wondered if I was being unjust. Maybe it was harder than I thought to be rich and beautiful and brainless.
Neal said there was a five-year qualifier in Angela’s prenup with Hiram: If they stayed married five years and a day, she would get full spousal rights as opposed to what she would get from the prenuptial contract. They were fast approaching that magic date, and bets were being placed as to whether Hiram would file for divorce because she would get a bigger piece of him if he didn’t.
I had my money on Angela. She was an attractive woman and no matter what I personally thought of her—in my old-fashioned, small-town mentality, a woman who married for money was a high-class whore—there was no denying that she was an appealing woman.
Once she found out I wasn’t after her husband, she tolerated me well. Fortunately, antiquities and museums and anything else that required thinking bored her, except when it brought camera crews.
While I found Hiram the Third uninteresting, I had to admit it wouldn’t be above me to take my turn on a casting-room couch for a chance to catch a billionaire. I know what that makes me, but as long as I was an expensive one, it didn’t bother my conscience at all. Simply marrying for money was a sin, but God would be forgiving if you married a whole lot of money.
Besides, I was curious about what it would be like to have a disposable marriage where one simply trashed it and moved on….
Hiram, of course, had no difficulty attracting beautiful women. He was on his third marriage and probably had at least one more in him. And I’m sure he didn’t fool himself into thinking that women were attracted to anything but his money.
Angela touched the emerald earring on her right ear and excused herself. “Eric’s been looking for you. Some business matter, he said. Go get yourself a drink first,” she said, as if reading my mind.
The earring obviously hid the receiver signaling an arriving guest.
She flew off, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake. I recognized the scent. Chanel No. 5. It had a distinctive smell that was hard to describe, a scent that had been around for decades, since the 1920s, in fact, and still retained its classy appeal. Personally, I preferred a more earthy, musky scent.
I spotted Eric as I made my way across the wide-open room. The cavernous space was too big, bare, and open for a living room. Its only purpose was for parties, so I supposed it was the modern penthouse version of a stately old mansion’s ballroom.
Eric was at the bar getting a drink. Even though the room was filled with people, it didn’t feel at all crowded. But like the auction house, the place smelled of money… magazine-quality interior design and furnishings and deep-pocket guests.
Marble was everywhere—walls, floors, and pillars—along with an intricately coffered ceiling. Splattered around the room were old master paintings and sculptures that contrasted with a modern high-gloss black grand piano. Nothing hanging on the walls was worth less than a million.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the art style lent itself toward European paintings rather than antiquities. Hiram had no interest in either style, leaving the penthouse art collection up to his personal art curator and the museum’s Mesopotamian character in the hands of hired help like me.
I walked by floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a stunning view outside. Neal mentioned the master bedroom level at the top of the building was surrounded by a terrace that captured a 360-degree view of the city.
An eclectic mix of people was in the room. As I moved by the guests, I acknowledged those I knew. Along with Hiram’s superrich friends were the cream of the nation’s art scene, gallery owners and superrich collectors.
Most of the people in the room were there to tell Hiram what a terrific addition he had made to the museum. In other words, to admire him. Only a couple of museum curators were there. Hiram obviously preferred to rub shoulders with money rather than knowledge.
Even though I knew I looked good, I still felt underdressed in my simple but elegant dress compared to the haute couture—dressed people in the room. Should I have worn something more ostentatious? A line from the movie
Working Girl
suddenly popped into my mind, something about if a woman wore cheap clothes, people noticed the clothes, but if she wore expensive clothes, they noticed the woman.
I wondered if people were staring at my clothes… or me. Why should I care anyway? That was my father’s practical voice. But the truth was, I guess a part of me did care.
On my way over to the bar, I talked briefly to a couple of gallery owners whom I knew. Eric’s back was to me, so he hadn’t seen me yet.
“Miss Dupre?”
I turned around and stared at a spitting image of Dolly Parton, big breasts and all. Only this one was younger, very much younger. She was perfect for the role I had cast her in for the night.
“I’m Chastity. The agency said I should speak to you.” She had a slight southern accent.
I gave her a big smile. “Okay, just give me a few minutes. There’s someone I need to speak to first.” I wanted to be sure the arrangement was still on before I made a commitment to her.
My reason for being at the party was more than just social. Eric wanted me to take care of a business matter for him. The girl from the agency was the reason Eric wanted to talk to me. I smothered another champagne laugh when I thought about the girl’s name.
“Hi, Eric,” I said to his back.
“Maddy, what took you so long?”
“Traffic,” I lied. It had been champagne, bubble bath, and mellowing out after the stress of the auction the day before. I ordered an apple martini instead of champagne for a change.
“The Huntzbergers are here. Have you made the arrangements with them?” he asked.
“No, I just got here, but I’ve met Chastity. She looks perfect for the job.” I nodded in her direction.
“She does, doesn’t she.” He drooled like a horny college kid when he looked at her. “I certainly wouldn’t mind getting some southern comfort from her.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I said. I almost added that his wife might object to it, though.
“She comes highly recommended,” he added, as if that qualified his reason for desiring her.
“I’ll bet she does.”
What was it about a girl with blond hair, big boobs, and a short skirt that made men go all gaga? I didn’t get it.
“So where are the Huntzbergers?” I asked.
He pointed to a couple in the opposite corner of the room. They appeared to be fiftyish. Even though they were dressed in designer clothes, they looked a bit stuffy to me, but one could never tell from outward appearances what lurks underneath. This PG-rated Midwest couple wanted X-rated excitement.
“These people are very wealthy, Maddy. They want to loan a valuable collection to the museum. It’ll turn into a donation if we play our cards right.”
People who donated pieces to museums and galleries nowadays often wanted something else besides a tax break and a little recognition. The perks were increasing. I wasn’t sure what else Eric had promised, but sex seemed to be high on the list for this couple. And they wanted more bang for their buck than a simple fuck: I was told to get someone they both would enjoy.
Pimping wasn’t supposed to be part of my job description, but somewhere along the line since the sexual revolution of the sixties depravity had become more and more acceptable in social and business arrangements.
I had arranged sex for other people before. Eric didn’t want to do the dirty work himself and made me make the arrangements. I hated it. Now that I had arrived career-wise, so to speak, I planned to tell Eric to have his assistant, a woman I detested, do his pimping in the future. The job required a call to an escort service and a coded conversation in which you explained what you wanted… without really revealing what you wanted: “I have friends coming in from out of town… husband and wife… they are lonely and would both enjoy the company of a young woman with stimulating conversation… wholesome looks would be nice….”
In other words, I needed a prostitute with pigtails who would go down on both of them.
I smiled at Eric.
Asshole.
“I know. I’ll take care of it.”
“I know you will.”
I took one sip of my drink and set it back on the bar. “Don’t let anyone touch this. I’ll be back to finish it,” I told the bartender.
“You got it.” He winked.
Cute guy
, I thought. Drinking champagne always makes me horny. I’ve always blamed it on the bubbles but had no scientific proof. As I went by Chastity, I said, “When you see me looking at you, come over.”
I navigated my way to the lucky couple.
“Good evening,” I said to the Huntzbergers. “I’m Madison Dupre.”
They both smiled slightly as their eyes traveled salaciously over my body. “I’m the Piedmont’s curator, not their—” Shit, I almost said,
Not their whore
. “I’m the curator of the Piedmont Museum,” I repeated.
“Oh, nice to meet you, Miss Dupre,” Mr. Huntzberger said. His wife nodded in agreement. “I told Eric we’re considering loaning our collection of Mesopotamian vases to your museum.”
“Yes, that’s what I understand. We’re all very excited. It would make a very impressive display. In fact, there’s someone here tonight, an intern who’s studying in that particular area, that’s very anxious to learn all about your collection.” I caught Chastity’s eye and gave her a nod. “I hope you don’t mind explaining the history of the pieces in your collection. I’m afraid our educational system has left Chastity with virgin ears when it comes to Mesopotamian art.”
I could have added that her ears were the only orifices she had left that hadn’t been poked and stroked many times.
The two middle-aged perverts left with the Dolly Parton look-alike, literally cooing all the way out the double doors. I was sure Chastity wouldn’t let them down. She was getting paid very good money.
I waved to Eric and gave him a thumbs-up, signaling everything was arranged. He was chatting with Hiram and gave me a wide smile. Another job well done. Jesus, what a couple of hypocritical pricks.
As far as I was concerned, Eric had degraded me once too often. He was dead meat. History. As far as being the museum’s curator, as of now I had a been-there, done-that attitude. Now I wanted weasel Eric’s job. I had to keep dancing.
When I went back to the bar to get my drink, I didn’t see my glass. “Hey, what happened to my drink?”
“Oops! Someone must have taken it.” He leaned closer to me. “You know, you just can’t trust these rich people, can you?”
“How do you know I’m not one of these untrustworthy rich people?”
“Well, after what I just saw, I figured you for a working girl. Or at the very least, their madam.”
I started laughing. He was cute and funny. I considered it a compliment that he’d think I was good enough to sell my body. “You are so right. Okay, I’ll take another apple martini, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“So tell me, since you’re so smart, what other things do rich people do besides steal drinks?”
“Let me tell you about the very rich. They’re different from you and me.”
That was so stupid, it got me laughing again. Those champagne bubbles still had control of my mind. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I was just kidding about the working girl stuff—and you being rich.”
“Why don’t you think I’m rich? It’s my clothes, isn’t it? The movie was right.”
“Huh?”
“Was it the clothes or me you noticed?’”
“Oh, I noticed what’s inside the clothes, all right.” He smiled. “It’s your eyes. The windows to the soul. That’s the tip-off.”
“My eyes?”
“They’re not greedy.”
He moved away to fill two glasses of champagne. He came back and said, “Your clothes are great. And unlike everyone else in the room, you’re not in a uniform. You’re different.”
“What do you mean different?”
“No Winston, Bvlgari, Gucci, Armani, Piguet, Cartier. They’re all wearing designer labels, designer diamonds and watches, smoking aged Gurkha cigars, driving Jaguars and Bentleys. They look like they all came off the same assembly line. The only thing that distinguishes them from each other is the size of their back accounts.”