Glamour (2 page)

Normally you only got this sort of turnout for the biggest stars. A-list actresses, the First Lady, the Lakers. But these three young women were legendary. America—and the world—was watching this meeting.

Coco felt her stomach knot with anticipation. She was going to be late taking Keisha to school, late for work. But it was worth it. She’d pushed her baby into the crowd, determined to show her three of the most sizzling, famous businesswomen in the world.

The American dream. Anyone could make it. It could be you in that limo. Never mind school—
that
was a lesson Keisha should learn. Coco turned toward the car as the L.A.P.D. officers shouted, motioning for everybody to get back. Keisha squealed in delight.

The security men swarmed around the gleaming black vehicle. There were olive-skinned soldiers, lean and dangerous looking, the palm tree of Ghada emblazoned on their uniformed chests. Mingling with them, brawny Americans with dark suits, shades, and earpieces—the Secret Service.

A man stepped forward and opened the back door of the limo.

The Arab security men snapped to a salute.

A slippered foot emerged from the limo, swathed in gorgeously embroidered gold thread. It was followed by the swish of a long dress, a floor-length robe in butterscotch silk, well-cut and covered with ornate stitched designs; modest, self-assured, and beautiful.The woman stood up; she wore a simple veil across her hair, secured with a solid semicircle of polished gold; her aquiline face was calm and confident.

“She’s so beautiful,” Keisha gasped.“Can I get a dress like that, Mom?”

“I don’t think it would fit you, baby,” Coco replied.

The crowd recovered from its fit of awe.

“Princess! Princess!”

“Princess Haya!”

“Haya, over here! Highness!”

The gold-robed vision smiled and waved; to the dismay of her handlers, she strode up to the barriers, shaking hands and greeting the crowd.They cheered and shouted; Haya chatted graciously.

“I want to meet her!” Keisha squealed.

“There are hundreds of people here, honey,” Coco said, not wanting her daughter to get disappointed.

But then four black-suited men brushed past her—and all of a sudden, there was the princess, standing before them, resplendent in her traditional gown; gleaming, as golden as the sun, like something out of Coco’s childhood fairy stories.

Keisha clapped her hands.

“You’re a real live princess!” she shouted.

And as Coco watched, Princess Haya laughed, reached forward, and gave the little girl a big hug.

“And so are you,” she replied. Then she looked down at Coco.

“Ma’am, you have a beautiful daughter.”

“Th-thank you—Highness . . . ,” Coco stuttered.

Haya smiled and winked at the amazed mother. Then she turned and walked up the red carpet, past her bowing security men, her silken robe fluttering in the light breeze.

“Oh, my gosh!” Keisha was saying. “She hugged me! Oh, my gosh!”

“Come on,” Coco said. “We got to get you to school, honey.”

Normally this would have provoked instant moaning. But Keisha allowed herself to be drawn along meekly, lost in her own little world.

To be honest, Coco had a buzz as well. That was cool—
way
cool. When they reopened the store, after the big meeting, she would pop in—buy herself a little something. Not that she could afford much. But just entering GLAMOUR made you feel like you were living the dream.

As she hustled her happy daughter toward the car, Coco stole a glance back over her shoulder.The crowd was still there, adrenaline up, chattering as they awaited the other two.

“Miz Nelson.”

“Yes?” Sally shouted back. She had to shout—the whirring of the chopper blades was just too loud.

“If you look to your left, ma’am,” the pilot bellowed,“you can see the store.We’ll be landing in just a second.”

“Great!”

Sally gave him a thumbs-up, and the pilot smiled at her momentarily before turning back to the controls. Like all men, he was flirting with her.

Sally shook her long blonde hair smoothly down her back. Expensively and expertly coiffed on Fifth Avenue by Rolande himself, owner of the famous line that she had discovered, it was a shimmering curtain of platinum. She snapped open her Hermès Kelly bag and removed a compact mirror. Too fabulous for words! No wonder it had been the hit of spring’s accessory line. She ran through the numbers in her head—five hundred dollars times how many? Ten thousand? Why, she’d made millions just from this
one
product. Customers couldn’t get enough of that Sally, GLAMOUR magic. And whatever the other two said,
she
was the one who knew how to give it to them.

Sally examined her beautiful face critically, looking for flaws. But there were none. Her skin, helped along by the very best facials and professionally applied Lassiter makeup, was glowing. She looked ten years younger than she was. Her body was buff and lithe—a personal trainer worked it out daily—and her dress was French Riviera chic, a Pucci print with a white silk jacket over the top, designed just for Sally. Sassy, cool, and irreverent, she carried it with her Kelly bag and trademark Manolos—throw in a large pair of tortoiseshell glasses and she was the living spirit of summer.

Sally knew she looked like a star. But then again, she
was
one. She leaned across the soft leather seats of her personal helicopter and looked down on the seething crowd milling alongside the GLAMOUR red carpet. They were her fans—the fans of the dream. The other two girls, well, she shrugged to herself, still angry—they’d just helped with the mechanics.

Sally Nelson was the star here. She was Barbie. She was Lady Liberty.The all-American icon, blonde hair, tanned skin, healthy Cali lifestyle, and oh yes, the small matter of a billion dollars or two to boot. She had appeared in more ad campaigns than she could count, and the public ate her up. GLAMOUR. That was her, wasn’t it? Not cold, bookish Jane, or regal Haya—who, let’s face it, had taken herself out of the game.

When they thought glamorous, they thought Sally. She smiled triumphantly. It was her store, her dream.They had named it after Sally!

Of
course
GLAMOUR should be hers.

“Please remain seated until the airplane has ground to a complete halt,” said the steward.

Jane Morgan didn’t even look him in the eye. She had already unbuckled her belt and jumped to her feet.

“Ma’am—please take your seat,” he said uncomfortably.

“Please get out of my way.” She turned to him, her famous black eyes cool. “This flight was delayed for four hours.”

She snapped open the overhead locker and retrieved her laptop bag, oblivious of the other first-class passengers’ stares.

“You’re defying FAA regulations.”

“Correct.” She shrugged.“I don’t pay ten thousand dollars for a first-class ticket in order to be prevented from doing my job.”

“We tried to make you as comfortable as possible, ma’am,” he began.

“I don’t need to be comfortable. I need to be in Beverly Hills. I have a meeting. And I’m
late
.”

Jane Morgan made that sound like a terminal condition.

Every fancy businessman, society wife, and ruddy-cheeked CEO in the first-class cabin was now watching the show.

He remonstrated with her, almost pleading . . .

“It’ll just be a minute . . .”

There was a small shudder, and the plane docked with the exit tunnel. The pilot, perhaps sensing the trouble, switched off the seat belt signs, and with that little ping, all the suits were up, fumbling around their laps, trying to get their bags.

Jane Morgan was already standing by the exit door. First in line and ready for business.

“Highness, I must advise against it.”

Ahmed al-Jamir, the embassy’s special adviser, leaned across the table, his dark eyes intent on Haya’s. “Your position . . .”

“I am a member of the board,” Haya said mildly.

“I meant your
royal
position,” Al-Jamir persisted. “This business stuff can be left to others.You should simply sell your stake. What is the point?”

Her dark eyes raced across the figures on the packet in front of her; finally they lifted and regarded him.

“The point is that GLAMOUR is
my
company. It’s
my
store. And I haven’t forgotten that.”

Even if the others had.

Al-Jamir was ready to weep. The princess would be queen one day, maybe one day soon. Her husband controlled countless billions, a major army. Even before the inheritance, Haya had her pick of no less than sixteen separate palaces, more jewels than she could wear.

For all its high-profile branding, this company was nothing. Nothing!

He lowered his voice and said as much.They both knew what he really meant. It was unseemly for a princess of Ghada to be playing around in American business. Look at the Englishwoman, Jane Morgan. Famous across the world, although Al-Jamir did not dare voice the thought, for being one
hell
of a ball-breaking bitch.

He did not want
Siti
Haya mentioned in the same breath as Jane Morgan! It demeaned her, it demeaned Prince Jaber. It lowered the very royal house!

Haya closed the company report and turned her gaze to the security men and civil servants.

“Leave us.”

“But Princess—”

“You can wait outside the door.”

There were a lot of reluctant bows, and then they all trooped meekly out. Haya gazed at her ambassador.

“When I married His Highness, I told him I had no intention of surrendering my past life.”

“But events . . .”

“Yes.We all know what happened.” She would not refer to the change in their circumstances. “Nonetheless, Ahmed, I founded this company. I began its spirit. I began its ethos. Something Sally and Jane apparently want eliminated. You need not fear; today will be the very last day I spend engaged in the world of business. I know my duty.”

She tugged her silken robes a little tighter around her shoulders, and the diplomat was impressed. Indeed, whatever her origins, Haya al-Yanna bore herself as though the crown were on her dark head already.

“But you and everyone else need to understand something.
I will not let them destroy this place.
Today is the last meeting. And I’m going to make it count.”

He was silent in the face of her anger.

“You may call them back in,” Haya told him regally, dismissively.

She turned back to the report.

Sally blew one last kiss to the cheering crowds, waving just the tips of her manicured fingers at them. “Thank you all
so much
!”

She crossed the red carpet to where the hungry media were waiting. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks; a forest of microphones jostled toward Sally’s face. The Arabian princess had cut them dead, and that was lame, but so what? Sally was the real golden girl, America’s sweetheart! The reporters shoved forward, yelling questions at the star.

“Sally! Is it time to get your revenge?”

“Who owns GLAMOUR?”

“Are you here to take control?”

“Is this an American company?”

“What do you have to say to the fans?”

That last one was a perfect softball. Sally stopped smiling for the photographers and turned to camera.

“I want to thank them for their love and support! I couldn’t do it without you guys!” she purred.

“What’re your plans, Sally?”

“You know how much I love GLAMOUR! I’m just here to set things straight.” She gave America that famous wink. “Now don’t y’all worry, because I’m here to see everything works out
just fine
.”

“But Princess Haya! Jane Morgan!”

“I looooove those ladies,” Sally said brightly. “But everyone knows that GLAMOUR
is
Sally Nelson! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.”

She blew another kiss, direct to TV land, pirouetted on her Manolos, and sashayed up the red carpet while the doormen saluted.

The reporters buzzed.

Sally Nelson knows how to give good coverage.

Sally is such a star.

She is gonna kick those other girls’ asses.

None of the paparazzi had any doubt.

“It’s coming up ahead, Miz Morgan.”

“I know where the store is,” Jane said shortly. She examined the letters from her bankers. Every word of the legal document mattered. Sometimes lawyers let things slip; she didn’t trust them.

“Shall I take you out front?” Her driver peered ahead.“There sure is a big crowd. Look at that turnout!”

“No. Make a left here.”

“A left?”

Was he deaf? “Yes,” she snapped.

“But GLAMOUR . . .”

“We’re not going to GLAMOUR.We’re going to the storage warehouse. There’s a closed parking lot between the warehouse and the offices.”

“You don’t want anybody to see you,” he said, slowly clocking on.

That’s right.

“I can’t stand fuss.”

In the rearview mirror he watched the chestnut hair, wound tight into a neat bun as tight as she was. Damn! He’d seen porcupines with less prickles.

But Jane Morgan paid good, real good, and at Christmas his bonus could run into thousands of dollars. His colleague’s son, the one with the gimpy leg, had gotten bullied at school and Miz Morgan had paid for private Catholic school. Now that the kid had maxed out his SATs, Rafael thought he might be going to get a scholarship to the Ivy League.

He swallowed and shut up. So she didn’t fraternize. That was okay. Everybody who worked for Morgana, Inc., knew who the boss was.

“Yes, ma’am, you got it,” he said.

Two minutes later he had dropped America’s toughest new businesswoman, queen of the Dow Jones, at the back of the warehouse. He watched as she swung her neat legs in their court shoes out the back of his car and marched off, between the enormous trucks full of GLAMOUR goodies, through the parking lot.

So she was arriving on the down low. Jason figured she had some calls to make, last-minute deals, something like that.