perform at breakfast then perhaps they could salvage it.
He sat down opposite her. ‘I know you’re still upset about what happened this morning.’
She stayed quiet. Maybe she was ill.
‘I apologise for keeping you in the house,’ Cole said magnanimously. He closed his eyes as though it pained him. ‘There, it’s done. Now can you please throw off this childish sulk and concentrate on tomorrow.’
She frowned. ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘I’d like us to breakfast with St Louis before we go,’ he said, glad she was finally engaging.
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘Please, Cole. I want to leave immediately in the morning.’
‘Why?’
She looked away. ‘I can’t explain. I’m tired. I just want to go … home.’
Cole’s anger was instantly dispelled. Lana had always refused to refer to the Beverly Hills mansion as her home–until now. If she was thinking of it in those terms, perhaps it would be easier to keep her than he thought.
As if on cue, his cell rang. It was Marty King.
‘Marty.’
‘Cole, hi. You’re in Vegas?’
‘Yeah. What is it?’ He got up and paced over to the window. He could see his wife reflected in the glass, her sad expression still in place.
‘Two things,’ said Marty, who sounded like he was eating. ‘First, I got you scheduled for an impromptu appearance next week at Castelli’s–thought you could throw a few shapes like you did at that fundraiser, get everyone dancing, y’know, like a spontaneous thing. Remind everyone what a great sense of humour you’ve got.’
Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. ‘And second?’
‘And second …’ Marty was quiet a moment. ‘Is Lana there?’
Cole held the phone closer to his ear. ‘Go ahead.’
‘I’ve found a way to seal this deal,’ he said. ‘Lana’s yours, Cole. I can’t discuss it over the phone but come see me when you’re back and we’ll go through the plan.’
He kept his voice low. ‘This had better be good.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, it is.’
Cole breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now all he had to do was get his wife smiling again. Fine, if it made her happy, they’d leave first thing.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said, snapping his cell shut. He watched Lana’s reflection in the glass. For a long time neither of them moved.
Days later, at the Vegas palace he called home, Frank Bernstein uncorked his finest bottle of vintage Krug with a great flourish. A twist of vapour escaped at the neck before it was emptied into a spread of waiting glasses.
‘What did I tell ya?’ he boomed, slapping Robert hard on the back. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing, son, I knew it all along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the wedding!’
Robert smiled at Elisabeth as everyone lifted their crystal flutes-Bernstein, looking more leathery than usual after a business trip to Sicily; Christie Carmen, clad in a microscopic pair of silver hot pants; and Jessica, with lips slightly pursed, as usual, at her sister being the centre of attention.
‘Mr and Mrs St Louis,’ said Elisabeth, savouring the words as she took a drink.
Her father nodded, satisfied. Thank Christ this damn union was finally going ahead. He’d thought back in France they were cooling things off, taking their time. Not on his watch.
There was too much at stake. Elisabeth had to get down that aisle and not a moment too soon.
‘How long will this take?’ moaned Jessica, already thinking about her outfit for the New Year’s party she was attending that evening.
Ignoring her, Bernstein took Robert’s arm and they moved away from the women.
‘You know what this means, right, St Louis?’ At the window they stopped and he put a hand on the younger man’s back. ‘You and I got some talking t’do.’
Robert ran a hand through his dark hair. He was tired. ‘We have? ‘
‘The future,’ said Bernstein, lighting a Cuban and angling his body away from the girls. A curl of smoke escaped out the side of his mouth. ‘You got responsibilities now.’
‘I know my responsibilities, Bernstein.’
‘Damn right. An’ now I’m tellin’ you, you got some more. Capiche? ‘
‘I won’t be threatened.’ Robert kept his voice down. ‘You can tell your associates it’s not happening.’
‘Wake the hell up, kid. What makes you think you’re any cleaner than the rest of us?’
‘I told you, I’m not interested.’
‘Well, get interested.’ Bernstein’s eyes darted to his daughter. ‘Call it insurance. One of these days you’re gonna need someone t’watch your back, an’ Elisabeth’s, an’ the kids’.’ He leaned in. ‘You got a story I could wipe my ass on? Think about it, wise guy.’
Robert’s head snapped up. What did Bernstein know?
He was being paranoid. Christmas had been and gone since Lana’s visit, but still he couldn’t get her out of his head. Every night since he had replayed it and tried to find a different outcome. The bottom line was: he’d blown it.
Sleep had eluded him that night of the dinner, knowing she was close by, closer than she’d been in years. He’d lain awake and thought of her in his hotel, making love to her perfectly pleasant but strangely artificial husband; of all the things he wanted to do but couldn’t. In the end he had given up and crept out of bed, careful not to wake Elisabeth, and spent the early hours composing a number of letters, none of which said what was important and all of which were balled up and thrown in the trash. He had dressed at six, waited an hour and then headed to the Orient, resolved to find her. He hadn’t prepared what he would say, but knew when he saw her that he’d find the words.
But she had already gone. He was too late.
‘Can you please tell your girlfriend to put some clothes on?’ Elisabeth drifted over in a mist of Chanel, a distasteful expression on her face. ‘It’s like the Playboy mansion in here.’
Bernstein chuckled as his eyes feasted on Christie Carmen, burbling on to a fed-up-looking Jessica, her ass like a split peach. He patted his stomach as though he’d just eaten a big and satisfying meal.
As soon as he moved off she pounced on Robert. ‘What was he talking to you about?’
‘Nothing
