Facets (44 page)

She needed power over John. That meant sinking her fingers into
Facets
and holding on. She could do it one of two ways—through her say as a shareholder, or through her own work. Since she wouldn’t control her stock until she turned twenty-five, she was determined to become the jewelry designer of note at
Facets
. By making the store’s name synonymous with her work, she would have the power she needed to fight John and win.

Chapter 21

Palm Beach, 1979

J
OHN WORKED THE CROWD
with his usual aplomb. He knew most of his guests, and those he didn’t, he greeted with a smile, an outstretched hand, and a clever word. Small talk was his forte. It didn’t demand much. While engaged in it, he could be thinking about more important issues, like whether the triple-tiered chandeliers were too sparkly, the caviar canapes too spare, the champagne too dry.

Turning from a guest to stop one of the tuxedoed waiters as he passed, he murmured so that only the young fellow heard, “Your friend on the other side of the room is flirting. Please tell him to do that on his own time. On my time, he’ll pass the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said and moved off.

John rejoined the ongoing chitchat for several minutes before moving on to another group. People seemed impressed. That pleased him. He had wanted the opening of
Facets
Palm Beach to be an event, and it was. A fair number of the press were there, more than had attended the opening of
Facets
New York three years before, and that pleased him, too. The name was growing. The following was growing. Fashion reporters and society columnists called often, which was all well and good until they asked for Pam. John had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, their interest in her was good for business. On the other, it was interest diverted from him.

He had to admit that her work had flair. Her pieces were unique. They were large and simple, relying on an undulation of gold or a twist of silver to provide an exciting backdrop for one or more stones. She worked exclusively with tourmaline, claiming it was in her genes. He was a diamond man, himself, but he couldn’t deny that her pieces sold well. For that reason, he gave her free rein with her designs.

On the matter of press interest, though, he wasn’t as free—or he hadn’t been in the past. His people had been able to soft-pedal the press response to her original show, saying that she was still a student and wouldn’t be available for interviews. Now, he was losing his hold. The press could find her whenever they wanted, either at
Facets’
workshop on Newbury Street or at the one in New York.

Raising his champagne glass to his lips, he looked over its rim to the spot across the room where she stood. She looked beautiful. Her white silk dress was strapless. It fell to her ankles, showing just a hint of high-heeled silver sandals. Her hair was swept into a loose knot at the top of her head. Her makeup was as simple and tasteful as her attire.

He knew her strategy. She wanted nothing to detract from her jewelry, and nothing did. Around her neck she wore a wide silver collar embedded with pink and purple tourmalines of various sizes and shapes. Her earlobes displayed silver disks, each with a single off-center stone. Her bracelet echoed the collar, with a ripple worked through it for good measure.

As he watched, he saw a woman touch the collar in admiration. He saw Pam smile in response, then turn her smile on another person in the group. He saw her talk, saw her nod, saw her accept the two-cheeked kisses bestowed on her when that group yielded to another.

She knew how to handle herself. He wanted to think she’d learned it from him, but if that was the case, she’d learned it from afar. She avoided him whenever possible. If he was on one side of a room, she stayed on the other. Generally she excused herself from affairs that she knew he was attending. But she went to many parties, and after each there were orders for replicas of the jewelry she’d worn.

Pamela St. George Originals, she called them. When she had first come up with the name, he had indulged her. He had doubted she had the experience or ability to produce a steady flow of designs. She was proving him wrong, though, and it was too late to change the name. People had latched on to it. They wanted “a Pamela St. George” or “a St. George Original.” He supposed that mention of the family name did him good; but he could have done without the quips about “the other St. George—the pretty one.”

Drawing himself straighter, he turned to welcome the junior senator from Florida. They talked for a bit. John had met the man at a reception in Washington several months before, and since plans for the Palm Beach store had been well under way at the time, they had much to discuss.

He wasn’t the only senator John knew. With the steady expansion of his circle of contacts, he made frequent visits to Washington, which put him in the company of politicians on a regular basis. They fascinated him, or rather their game did. He was intrigued by the jockeying that went on when one wanted something from another. Political blackmail was subtle and called by any other name.

He played the game, but from a distance. He was content to contribute money to one candidate or another, even to contribute big money to some. But he wanted none of the impermanence of Washington, where a man’s career was at the whim of voters or, worse, the media. He wanted his own fame to be solid and long-lasting. Given how far he’d come in his thirty-nine years, he had a good shot at it.

Only half-listening while the senator talked, he ran through a mental roster of his guests and considered how he ranked on the list. He wasn’t as wealthy as some. He didn’t have as many homes as others. And the St. George Company was a baby compared to some of the other corporations represented.

But what a baby. She was a gold mine, and he had made her so. His timing had been right, his shrewd management on the mark. Any financial crises he’d endured after the opening of
Facets
Boston were history.

He couldn’t help but be smug at the thought of his yacht moored in Newport Harbor and his Rolls-Royce parked on Beacon Hill. The townhouse, redecorated from top to bottom, had been the scene of many an elegant gathering of late. His parties were prized affairs, well attended and chic. He never had a shortage of guests.

But guests were guests, women were women, and superficiality was the name of that game. When he wanted to relax, Hillary was still the one he went to. She knew him. He didn’t have to play the gentleman with her.

She wasn’t here tonight, though, because he never invited her to the most important of his parties. It wasn’t her place. Unlike Pam, she wasn’t the glamorous type.

Excusing himself from the senator at a breaking point in the conversation, John wandered to a spot where he had a view of Pam again. She was talking to the applesauce heir. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, twenty-five or twenty-six, not a bad match for her. She claimed she wasn’t getting married, claimed—right to his face no more than a month before, when he’d raised the issue—that if she couldn’t marry Cutter Reid, she wouldn’t marry at all.

He didn’t like her boldness or the arrogance that came with professional recognition. Even more, he didn’t like her mention of Cutter Reid. She only did it to bother him.

Cutter was one of his few mistakes. He hadn’t dreamed that the guy could pull himself up by the shoestrings and make something of himself. Not that John considered modeling as something, but Cutter was making good money. He assumed Cutter would squander it. His kind didn’t have brains to think ahead to the day when their skin would crease and their hair would turn gray.

Although Cutter Reid’s days in the sun were numbered, it rankled John that he had enjoyed any such days at all.

The irony of it all rankled, too. Cutter would never have modeled if John had been freer with the belt and scarred his face. Nor would Cutter have ever modeled if John hadn’t made him leave Timiny Cove. He would still be there. Mining. Making eyes at Pam, who was so far above him. She was beautiful. Talented. Smart.

John reached for a cigarette, only to remember that he was no longer smoking. His doctor had advised him to stop, and that made sense. It would be tragic to build an incredible life and then die of cancer at fifty. He planned to live until eighty at least, enjoying respect, adulation, and great wealth.

Eighty years was a long time to live. A person could get lonely after a while. A person could get lonely, period, but life at the top was that way. Loneliness was the price paid for prominence. Even in this large, lavishly appointed room with four hundred people, he felt alone.

Pam should see that. She was his sister. She should know how he felt. She should help. She should be there for him.

But she was more interested in furthering her own name and career. If it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t be sashaying her way among the rich and famous. She wouldn’t be an up-and-coming jewelry designer. She wouldn’t have any career at all.

If it hadn’t been for him, she would be an unwed mother trying to raise a child on her own. Maybe it was time he reminded her of that. She was a little too ungrateful and enamored of herself. She needed to be taken down a peg or two.

By the time the last of the guests had left and the caterers were stacking their silver trays, Pam was gone. John might have guessed it. She never made things easy. He called the hotel and learned that she had checked out before the party. One of his PR people reported having seen her change clothes in the ladies’ room. Another reported having seen her leave the store and jump into a cab. A third called the airport and found that her name was on the passenger list for a flight that was now taxiing onto the runway.

He tried calling her in Boston later than night, but she didn’t answer. He tried calling her at the company’s suite in New York, although he knew she rarely stayed there. She preferred the Hilton. Or Hillary’s. So he tried calling her there, but a groggy Hillary was the only one to answer.

He wondered if she was seeing Cutter Reid. The thought drove him wild. He simmered all night, took the first morning flight back to Boston, and went to her apartment and pounded on the door.

He never expected her to be there, but within a minute she opened the door. She was tying the sash of a long white robe. Her face was clear of makeup and flushed from sleep. Between that and the hair tumbling over her shoulders, she looked warm and womanly. John felt an instant physical response, which annoyed him all the more.

She was wary. “What is it, John?”

“No bright ‘hello’? No ‘how are you,’ or ‘didn’t that go well yesterday’?”

“Sorry, but I OD’d on small talk.”

She did look tired, which got all of his suspicions going again. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you would stick around after the party.”

“What for? It was a success. We both knew it would be.”

“There were people to thank. That’s your responsibility, too. We’re business partners, for Christ’s sake.”

She arched a slender brow. “Business partners? Are you kidding? I’m a company employee. Just one of the designers.”

Since he wasn’t about to acknowledge that her work was in any way superior, he focused on the family connection: “You’re a St. George. You have a stake in the company.”

“Only in theory. I don’t get my say for another two years.”

“Keep up the bitchiness and you won’t get it at all.”

“Bitchiness? For God’s sake, John,” she threw up a hand, “I’m stating facts. I don’t control my share of the company. You do. I just work there.”

“And when you’re not working there, you’re running around drumming up business for yourself and your designs. Think you’re pretty hot, hmmm?”

“I don’t need this.” She started to close the door. He caught it with a foot and stepped inside before she could stop him, then kicked it shut.

Whirling around, she retreated into the apartment. He followed and reached the kitchen in time to disconnect the call she was making, then snatched his finger away seconds before she would have crushed it slamming down the receiver.

“Who were you calling?”

“The police. I don’t want you here, John.”

He drew himself up. The taller he towered over her, the more dominant he felt. “Tough. I want to talk.”

Incredibly, she held her ground. “Not now. Not here. This is my apartment. The lease is in my name. I pay for it with money I earn, and you’re trespassing.”

“I’m your brother.”

“Half-brother. Get out.”

He knew then that he had riled her. That was something—certainly better than the way she looked through him sometimes, refusing to admit he was there. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms on his chest. “I want to talk.”

“About what?”

“You. What you’re doing. Where you’re going.”

“You already know all you have to.” She was standing by the counter, looking defiant but just that little bit nervous, which enhanced his sense of control.

“Not by a long shot. I want to know whether you like what you’re doing.”

“If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be able to do it so well.”

“No modesty there.”

“Why play games? We both know that my pieces are selling faster than every other designer’s but one, and his figures are high because he has a contract with an Arab who has him making things for every woman in his entourage. My jewelry wouldn’t sell if it weren’t good, given the prices we charge.”