she and Robert were married, she would be its queen.
They swept past Reception to the waiting elevator. As they rose to the sixteenth floor, Robert took her hand.
‘I’m proud you’re on my arm,’ he told her.
‘You’re on mine, St Louis.’ She winked as they alighted.
At news of the couple’s arrival, a reverential hush fell over the assembled investors and Vegas notables. Jowly men with ruddy cheeks and fat wallets stood next to their glamorous wives, whose priceless gems dripped from their fragrant, powdered skin.
The women watched enviously as Elisabeth let the fur drop from her shoulders, revealing a glittering kingfisher-blue gown that matched her eyes. Every last one of them wanted Robert St Louis and, seeing Elisabeth now, understood why they never would.
Her fiancé took easily to the floor. ‘I’m pleased to see so many of you here,’ he said, clapping his hands together and approaching the waiting lectern. ‘It’s a special night. The Orient has been working closely with the causes here this evening …’
Elisabeth smiled, quietly greeting one of the wives with a brief air kiss.
As she watched Robert, she felt powerful. No longer was she merely Frank Bernstein’s daughter: she was part of a team that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, a team that would lay the foundations of a new Vegas dynasty. This was hers alone–she didn’t have to involve her father at all.
Nothing could come between her and Robert.
If ever it did, she would fight it to the death.
London
Chloe French held her expression as she reclined on the leopard-print chaise longue and followed the photographer’s instructions.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ he told her, clicking away. ‘Anyone ever told you you’ve got the face of an angel?’
They had, actually. At nineteen Chloe French was the sweetheart of London’s fashion circuit–a raw, unaffected beauty and a fledgling star on her way to the top. She was tall, nearly six feet, with a sheet of jet-black hair that fell to her waist and glittering slate-grey eyes.
A make-up girl wearing too-tight denim hot pants rushed over and reapplied pink lipgloss, fanning Chloe’s hair out around her and repositioning the vintage clutch.
‘Thanks,’ Chloe called when she scurried off.
‘Stop saying thanks,’ instructed the photographer, an Emo guy with thick Elvis-Costello-style glasses, ‘you’re disrupting the shot.’
‘Sorry,’ said Chloe, cringing. The camera popped as she pulled the face.
Chloe French had been spotted four years ago outside Topshop on Oxford Street, feeling rough amid a horrible winter cold and wearing an old hoody with a ketchup stain down the front. She’d been modelling ever since. Over that time she had worked with some of the biggest names in fashion, but she still couldn’t shake the little knots of self-consciousness that accompanied a shoot like this. There just seemed to be so much fuss.
Consulting his assistant on the stills, the photographer grinned. ‘That’s the one.’ Chloe’s slight awkwardness, so unlike the other models he was used to working with, came off brilliantly on camera as coy vulnerability.
‘Have you got what you need?’ she asked, sitting up. ‘I’m meeting Nate.’ She beamed at the mention of her rock-star boyfriend.
‘And all the world’s press?’ The photographer made a face, remembering the last time Nate Reid had come to the studio. He’d been trailed by a troop of devoted paparazzi, supposedly unintentionally, though nothing about Chloe’s boyfriend appeared to be without intention.
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Nate’s discreet.’
‘He is?’ The photographer raised an eyebrow. ‘I can’t open a London paper without seeing you two.’
Chloe shrugged. ‘For a musician.’
‘Yeah, the Pied fucking Piper,’ he muttered, remembering the cameras dancing at Nate’s heels.
On cue the studio door opened and a rakish figure appeared in the doorway, a wiry silhouette crowned with artfully tousled hair.
‘Nate!’ cried Chloe, jumping up and running over.
‘Great,’ the photographer said with a roll of his eyes, ‘just what we need.’
Nate Reid, frontman with The Hides, held out his arms to embrace her. Nate was the epitome of rock and roll–or at least he liked to think he was. As the hottest property in British music, he wasn’t conventionally good-looking, a little on the rangy side and quite short, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in charisma. With piercing green eyes, a fuck-you attitude and an anarchic reputation, he was, in Chloe’s eyes, everything that was wonderful in the world.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Nate, kissing her deeply. She tasted of cherries.
Chloe smiled down at him–she tried not to let the height difference bother her.
‘Are you done yet?’ he asked, a tad irritably. ‘I’ve been waiting.’
Chloe gave a hopeful expression to Emo-guy.
‘Yup, we’re done,’ he said, busy with the stills.
When she turned back she was just in time to catch Nate scoping out one of the other models, before his eyes slid swiftly back to her.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, linking his arm tightly.
Unsurprisingly, the press had caught wind of Nate’s arrival. As the couple emerged on to the street, a circus of shouting and flashing bulbs erupted. Nate held up a hand as they bustled through to the waiting car, as if the whole thing was a massive inconvenience. He parcelled Chloe away and turned to the paps, treating them to a couple of clean shots.
‘You heading out tonight, Nate?’ one of them asked. ‘Chloe going with you?’
‘Classified information, boys,’ said Nate, editing out the tip-off he’d fed through earlier. He turned to get in the car.
‘Is it true Chloe’s moving to LA?’
Nate gritted his teeth. ‘Not true.’
‘There’s talk that—’
He climbed in and slammed the door.
An army of lenses swooped in on the windows, clicking insistently, aimlessly, in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.
‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’
‘’S no big deal.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Come
