The Secret Heiress (3 page)

“Would you repeat that, sir?” the secretary asked. “I didn’t quite understand you.”

“This is Aleksandr Sokolov, the plant manager of PPHL in Belarus,” he reiterated, more slowly this time. “We have had an explosion at the steel mill here, and I need to speak to Oliver Burdett immediately.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the secretary said, “but Mr. Burdett is no longer with us.”

Who is this idiot?
Sokolov wondered.
And what does she mean? Did Burdett die? Was he fired?
He knew enough English to know that the phrase was ambiguous. “What do you mean, ‘he’s no longer with us’?” he asked, losing his patience. “I just spoke to him yesterday or the day before.”

These Eastern European types!
Violet Byatt thought, pursing her lips.
They’re all animals!
This one was probably soused on vodka.

“I mean, sir,” she said in a saccharine voice, “that Mr. Burdett is no longer with PPHL. He has been replaced.” She brushed imaginary lint off the front of her pale blue twin set.

“Replaced?” Sokolov said. “You mean he’s no longer the London manager?”

“That’s precisely what I mean,” she said.

“But—but who is his replacement?” Sokolov asked. “We have a dire situation here—a tragic situation—and we nearly have a riot on our hands. I need to speak to a manager at once.”

“I’ll have to transfer your call,” Violet Byatt replied. “Please hold.”
Let someone else deal with the drunken pig,
she thought.

“Who—?” But before Aleksandr Sokolov could ask who the new London manager of PPHL was, Violet Byatt put him on hold.

Aleksandr Sokolov listened anxiously to the
bleep-bleep
as she transferred his call. He dabbed the sweat on his brow with a handkerchief, wondering how much longer he could hold down his job under the present conditions. He had repeatedly warned Burdett that something like this would happen, but the corporation had no interest in his problems at the distant plant in Belarus. They were milking it for every penny they could get out of it, and damn the workers.

 

The pristine 265-foot megayacht
Nikoletta
had dropped anchor offshore the small but beautiful island of Barbados. Although she could have been docked at one of the piers, her owner, Nikoletta Papadaki, had been persuaded by the security detail that it was wiser to ferry guests to and from the yacht by helicopter and in its tenders and speedboats. That way the chance that a party crasher or other such undesirable would gain access to the yacht would be greatly reduced. Because of the guests, security was of paramount importance. Among them were a number of celebrities, several titled Europeans, several of the superrich, and even some of the ordinary rich. The jewelry worn by the women alone ran into the millions of dollars, and on the wrists of the men was a king’s ransom in Patek Philippe, Breguet, and other watches of equally expensive provenance.

Nikoletta Papadaki had decided to have a prebirthday celebration. In another week she would turn twenty-one and ascend to the leadership of Papadaki Private Holdings Limited, as stipulated in her late father’s will. She would now be the sole proprietress of one of the world’s largest privately held corporations with worldwide interests. Only a partial list of her holdings included shipping, shipbuilding, and oil companies, oil refineries, mines of different kinds, various chemical companies, real estate, vast farming and livestock ranches, logging operations, hotels and resorts, even garment manufacturers and design firms. In short, there was hardly a continent or a business that PPHL didn’t have a considerable finger in.

The Caribbean, Niki had decided, was the perfect place to celebrate her ascension. It was January, after all, and her host of rich, hedonistic friends, whether European or from the States, would be seeking the sun’s solace during the dreary winter months. The South Americans she knew would think nothing of leaving their enclaves in Brazil or Argentina or their beach homes in Punta del Este to come to Barbados for a party.

One hundred and fifty of them had gathered, and they had all been ferried to her luxurious yacht, where they had dined on catered caviar, lobster, foie gras, and guinea hen. Now they were dancing the night away or enjoying more clandestine activities behind locked stateroom doors, fueled by the party’s endless supply of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne or substances they’d brought themselves.

Niki was dancing to the band she’d brought in from Rio de Janeiro to play, to all appearances absorbed in her partner, but she was keeping an eye peeled for the sexiest man around. For later. She knew most of the men, of course, and had enjoyed dalliances with many of them. But being the connoisseur that she was, Niki wanted to make certain that tonight she bedded the most appealing man available.

“Don’t you love them?” said Giovanni, a handsome, tanned Italian prince who’d come from Milan for the occasion.

“Who?” she asked, giving him the full attention of her huge dark eyes.

“The band, Niki,” he said in an exasperated voice. “Have you already had that much champagne?”

“No,” she said. “In fact, I’m just getting started. Anyway, who cares? The band’s the best, Gianni,” she replied, pressing her ample breasts against him lasciviously.

“Everything you do is the best,” he replied, putting his hands on her round, firm buttocks.

Niki laughed raucously. “You’re just horny, Gianni,” she said. “You always are.”

He smiled. “Who wouldn’t be with you around, Niki?”

“Ha!” she said, poking his muscular chest with a lacquered fingernail. Gianni would do in a pinch, she thought, a tried-and-true lover. Yet she wanted to experience someone new tonight.

A hand lightly tapped Niki’s shoulder, and she turned to see who it was. She frowned when she saw one of the yacht’s stewards, a good-looking young blond whose name Niki couldn’t remember. “What do you want?” she asked crossly. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

“I’m very sorry, madam,” he said, “but you have an important telephone call from London.”

“Tell whoever it is to call back tomorrow,” she said, refocusing her attention on Gianni.

“I’m sorry, madam,” the young man persisted, “but the caller says it’s an emergency.”

Niki emitted a sigh of exasperation and reached for the cell phone he was carrying. “Give me that.”

Before the young man could hand it to her, Niki snatched it out of his hand. “Hello?” she said, flipping a long tress of pale blond hair away from her eyes. Her manicured nails were varnished in a glittery gold, a touch she’d added to match the gold sequined gown John Galliano at Dior had designed especially for her bash.

At the other end of the line, Aleksandr Sokolov’s surprise was shown in his voice. “Who is this?” he demanded.

“Who’s
this
?” Niki fired back. “I was told this was an emergency, so whoever the hell you are, out with it. You’re interrupting a party.”

“This is Aleksandr Sokolov,” he retorted. “I am the general manager of the PPHL plant in Belarus. I was trying to reach Mr. Oliver Burdett, the London manager of PPHL, and I was transferred to this number from the London office. Mr. Burdett has been replaced, I’m told. But I see that I’ve been connected to the wrong number.”

“
Nyet,
Mr. Sokolov,” Niki replied, mimicking his heavy Russian accent, “you’ve got the right number. This is Nikoletta Papadaki, and I’m the new chairman of PPHL worldwide. Now, what the hell do you want? I want to get back to my party.”

Aleksandr Sokolov was momentarily speechless. “You have replaced Mr. Oliver Burdett?” he carefully inquired.

“You got it, Alek. Until I find a replacement for him, you answer to me. Now hurry up. Your time’s running out.”

“We have a crisis here at the Belarus steel mill,” he said. “There has been an explosion. Sixty-two men were killed and many others injured. There are crowds at the gates—”

“Listen, Alek,” Niki said. “You’re the plant manager, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied. “I told you that.”

“Then
manage,
” Niki snapped. “You’re ruining my party.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Don’t ever bother me with crap like this again.” She flipped the cell phone closed. “Idiot!” she said to no one in particular.

The steward appeared at her side immediately, his hand out for the cell phone.

“What’s your name?” Niki asked, although she could clearly see it on the name tag he wore.

“Helmut, madam,” he replied. “Helmut Schneider.”

She ruffled his blond hair, then tapped his cheek lightly with the palm of her hand, as if warming up for a firm slap. “Well, Helmut, don’t you ever interrupt me for something like that again or you’re out of here.”

“Yes, madam,” he said sheepishly. “I was told it was an emer—”

“Never again!” Niki said.

He nodded. “Yes, madam. Of course.”

He began backing away from her, and Niki turned back to Gianni.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“Oh . . . business,” she said. “At a damned steel mill in Belarus I bought.”

“Belarus!” Gianni laughed, putting his arms around her. “How rude of them. The cretins have no manners. Bothering you with business at a time like this.” He nuzzled her neck, his lips brushing against her flesh, and slid his hands over her ass again as they resumed dancing.

Niki tried to concentrate on the music, but she was too agitated by the interruption. She had to do something about it immediately. “Have you seen Adrian?”

He nodded to starboard. “He’s over that way. Dancing with his sister.”

Niki looked in the direction he’d indicated and saw Adrian and Honor dancing at the edge of the crowd. They were laughing about something. “I’ve got to have a talk with him,” she said. “I’ll see you later, Gianni.”

“Aw, Niki,” he complained, reaching out to grab her.

“Later,” she repeated, already weaving her way through the throng of dancers to Adrian Single and his sister, ignoring the well-wishers who tried to engage her in conversation.

As she neared the pair, she noted how good-looking they were. Adrian, her forty-six-year-old godfather, was tall, dark, and handsome, and he was also suave and sophisticated and possessed of an acute business ability. Although he was much younger than her late father, he’d been his second-in-command and most trusted confidant and knew more about PPHL than anyone else. Honor Hurlstone, his widowed sister, was older than Adrian, but was still a beauty. When they saw Niki approach, they stopped dancing and turned to her with smiles.

“Are you having—?” Honor began.

“I need to talk to you,” Niki said, her fiery eyes on Adrian.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, letting go of Honor.

“I want you to fire the manager at the steel mill in Belarus,” she said.

“Fire him? But why?”

“I just got a telephone call from the idiot,” Niki said, arms akimbo.

“What did he want?” Adrian Single asked, gazing at her with curiosity. His spoiled godchild’s explosive nature alarmed him, and he could see that she appeared to have already had a lot to drink. Not a good sign.

“Who cares?” Niki retorted. “He’s got a lot of nerve interrupting me during a party.”

“But, Niki, he must not have known,” Honor said, reaching out to stroke her arm.

Niki jerked her arm away, and her eyes flashed with fury. “Don’t try to mother me, Honor.”

Honor Hurlstone folded her hands together, and her features became an expressionless veil, giving away none of the turmoil that she felt. Niki was a complete mystery to her. She had been a virago since birth, and now that she had taken over the reins of her father’s empire, Honor was dreading what effect the added power would have.

“Niki,” Adrian said, smiling as if her demand were reasonable, “you know as well as I do that the man had no idea he was interrupting your party, and he wouldn’t have called unless there was something extremely important going on. Now, what did he have to say?”

“Something about an explosion,” she replied. “I don’t really remember.”

Honor gasped. “Oh, no!”

“Jesus,” Adrian exclaimed. “Are you certain?”

Niki shrugged and plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “I think so, but I’m not sure.” She took a sip of the wine and gazed at him, her dark eyes taunting. “What I
am
sure about is that I want you to get rid of him.” She started back toward Gianni, then turned to face Adrian again. “And
now
!”

Watching her weave her way among the dancers, stopping to chat and trilling laughter along the way, Honor felt a knot form in her stomach. “What are you going to do?” she asked Adrian, her dark eyes searching his.

“I’m going to call Sokolov and find out what the hell’s going on first,” he said, “then take it from there.” He saw her worried expression. “Don’t fret, Honor. It’ll be okay.”

“I’m not so sure,” she replied.

He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said. “I need to hear myself think, so I’m going to make this call from my stateroom.”

Honor nodded. “I’ll be here.” She sat down on an upholstered banquette and picked up the glass of champagne she’d left there. Niki’s behavior concerned her greatly, and she couldn’t throw off the feeling of impending doom that Niki’s outburst had left her with. Nikos had been the only person who could ever control Niki, and even he had admitted defeat more often than victory. He’d admired his daughter’s willfulness and even encouraged it. She was much like him, he’d often said, determined to get her way no matter what. Since his death, Niki had taken advice from no one, although she would sometimes listen to Adrian. Like her father, Adrian had been a constant presence in her life, somewhat like a benevolent uncle. But Honor wondered now whether Adrian would be able to help restrain Niki’s more undesirable impulses. It was such a shame, Honor often thought, that Nikos and Larissa, his beautiful British wife, had divorced all those years ago and that Larissa had been killed in a car accident afterward. Perhaps Larissa might have had a beneficial influence on Niki, Honor idly mused, but somehow she doubted it. The girl had certainly never listened to
her
. On the contrary, she seemed determined to ignore every piece of advice Honor had ever tried to give her.