you slow down?’ Angela commented. Unable to resist stoking the fire of sibling rivalry, she added wickedly: ‘Anyone would think you were jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ He snorted. ‘Hardly.’
But she didn’t believe it. Orlando and Luca existed on the soft plush pillow of their father’s wealth like cats in the sun, safe in the assurance that they had to do very little to merit his attention. Angela, on the other hand, had had a fight on her hands since day one—and it had forced her to succeed. As the only girl and third in line to the Silvers throne, she was long accustomed to a role in the shadows. Why should a world-famous heiress to immeasurable fortune be getting involved in the tough stuff when there were more frivolous things to be doing, like getting her nails done, or partying, or visiting their private Hawaiian retreat for a week of sun and spa?
Angela didn’t give a shit about any of that. She had the balls and the brains of any man—bigger, better—and had demonstrated she could easily trounce her brothers when it came to business. Setting up Fit for NYC by herself was testament to that.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said, switching seamlessly to a smile for their guest of honour, supermodel of the moment Tawny Lascelles. Tawny was blonde, wide-eyed and sultry. She was four years younger than Angela but the gap felt wider—the way Tawny behaved in the press was naïve to say the least, snorting coke, flashing her knickers (or lack of them), creeping into cabs with married men … It hadn’t stopped her snagging contracts with Burberry, Mulberry and Chanel—and her attendance tonight was surely to make certain that Angela’s brainchild was next.
‘Tawny, how great to see you, thank you for coming …’
The model delivered a tight air-kiss, sniffed the air and moved on.
Orlando smirked. ‘Why are models always baked?’
‘Yeah, well, at least one of us is on top of our game.’
‘Which is why you’ve been AWOL for the past half hour?’
Angela conceded that her pre-party dalliance with Noah hadn’t exactly been the height of professionalism. She couldn’t help it. Snatched moments, hidden trysts, each second savoured to carry them to the next encounter, always an eternity away. Both public figures, a glimpse would be splashed across the web in a nanosecond—already rumours simmered dangerously. Noah had implored her, but still she said no.
Damn! She could not live beneath her father’s jurisdiction for ever.
‘Well?’ Orlando pressed. ‘Gonna let me in on your vanishing act?’
‘It’s none of your damn business.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Want me to tell Dad?’
‘Tell him what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I know you can fuck off.’
‘You’re a shitty liar, Angela.’
She wanted to hit him. ‘And what makes you such a saint?’
Orlando shrugged. ‘Nothing. Guess I’m better at hiding it than you.’
It had been too much to hope for her brother’s support. Only Noah had believed she could do this. Only he’d had faith. Despite the way her family had treated him in the past, Noah had been adamant that victory was in her blood—and if the men could do it, why couldn’t she? Ever since her great-grandfather had founded a modest Boston department store, through the decades growing it from strength to strength, winning had been the name of the game. On the crest of success her father had expanded into wider markets still: hotels, casinos, fashion labels; on to the Middle East, Tokyo and Singapore …
Today the Silvers brand was a worldwide lifestyle force. Angela was dead-set on running the ship one day. In the meantime, if her father wouldn’t stake her a role, she would simply go up against him. She had to prove herself one way or another.
Gianluca joined them. Together, the Silvers brothers reeked so strongly of a Harvard Business degree it settled like fog.
‘Dad’s got an announcement,’ said Luca, with his irritating I-know-something-you-don’t-know pout. Luca’s wide, thick-lashed eyes and high brushstroke cheekbones were trademarks of the family. Women went crazy for him.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Orlando took another drink. ‘He’s retiring—and you know what that means. Silvers is coming straight to me, baby.’
Luca arranged his jacket. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m the eldest.’ He swigged. ‘But hey, don’t worry, I won’t fire you.’
Luca smirked. Then he said: ‘May the best man win.’
‘Or woman.’
‘Forget it,’ Luca dismissed, waving a hand about, ‘haven’t you already got this … sideline?’
‘Which is a damn sight more than you’ve got,’ Angela shot back.
A tinkling glass put paid to the dispute. Angela seized the platform, welcomed the sea of guests and press and recounted her journey, from a teenage summer in Paris that had ignited her passion for couture, to the first flame of her Fit for NYC idea; from the funding she’d secured—independently from her father—to the glory of this opening night. She imagined Noah next to her, encouraging her and urging her on.
When the applause died down, echoes of light still dancing from the raft of cameras, she invited her father, as arranged, to offer his congratulations.
As Donald Silvers approached, she fixed her determined gaze on his.
In spite of it all, Angela knew that he believed in her. She had never been the daughter he’d anticipated—she’d been more.
He shook her hand, equal to equal.
Now was her chance to prove it.
Los Angeles
Kevin Chase was watching his manager’s mouth. He noticed for the first time that it was a small mouth, the teeth crowded, and the jowly cheeks bolstering it brought to mind a yapping dog wedged between two cushions. The mouth was moving, but no sound was coming out. In the years since becoming America’s biggest solo artist—scratch that, the world’s—and the definitive pin-up for a squillion screeching tweenies (when was his fan base going to grow?), Kevin had honed the art of appearing to concentrate while actually not listening to a single word.
‘Kevin, are you paying attention? C’mon, buddy, this is serious.’
‘Yeh.’
‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Kevin slumped further into the squishy leather couch in Sketch Falkner’s downtown office and grudgingly lifted his shoulders.
‘Dunno,’
