One Way or Another(78)

“Where did you get this?”

“Ahmet took it from your bag. When your back was turned, I suppose.” She shrugged and gave him that tight smile of hers. “Mr. Ghulbian is not above a little petty larceny, Marco, you must know that. Of course he’s rich, he can pay for anything he wants, including women, but that red-haired one did not come cheap.”

Marco bent to fix the lead on Em’s collar. The dog sat up, ready to go. “The red-haired young woman’s name is Angie Morse,” Marco said. Then added, “But why do I guess you already knew that? I also believe you know where she is.”

Mehitabel said, “You mean if she is still alive, don’t you?”

“I think I have to ask Ahmet about that.”

Marco and the dog were already on their way out.





56

Mehitabel had three tasks. The first was to shop for a ball dress for herself, the second was one for Lucy, and third—outrageous, she thought, but she would do as Ahmet asked—for Angie. Angie who anyhow by now should be dead and gone and no longer a worry, though why Ahmet did not see this, did not envision the danger of keeping the woman alive—barely, by now—did not see he ran the risk of his losing everything, she could not comprehend. And all for a barmaid-hostess who’d never meant anything anyway, until Ahmet had made something of her. Women like Angie were the fluff in men’s lives, not to be taken seriously, meant to be used then discarded, sometimes with an expensive goodbye gift, sometimes not even the “goodbye.” And sometimes never to be seen again. Which one was Angie to be? Mehitabel wondered.

First, though, she called Lucy, tapping her nails impatiently against her phone as the number rang and rang without even a “sorry not here at the moment” message. Typical of Lucy, she thought, not a care in her head for the person calling, for anyone but herself. She remembered Ahmet saying, “Well, after all, she is only seventeen,” which, in legal terms was a definite danger mark.

Sex with an underage girl was not anything Ahmet would normally have worried about, but Mehitabel knew he would not step over the line with Lucy. The girl came from a well-known family, a family with connections, a background he did not possess. Any legal fight between the billionaire and an underage female of Lucy’s background was sure to leave Ahmet the loser, not only monetarily, but morally. He would be destroyed. Which is exactly what Mehitabel wanted. How to achieve that was the question, and that question was still on her mind when she at last got Lucy on the line.

“Good morning, Lucy,” she said in her best “nice girl” voice, though “sweet” was not something she could ever manage.

*

“Who is this?” Foggy with sleep, Lucy glanced at the bedside clock, a pretty little silver Tiffany that had belonged to her mother, with numerals so large she never had to open her eyes wide to catch the correct time, which suited her just fine. “It’s only nine thirty, for God’s sake.”

Mehitabel said, “Not that I believe ‘God’ cares what the time is, but I do and you should. This is Mehitabel. Mr. Ghulbian has put me in charge of equipping you for the Marshmallows ball. He wants you to be even more beautiful than you already are. I’m quoting him on that. Besides, all the media will be there—TV, magazines, newspapers. Mr. Ghulbian would like to feature you in these publicity shots, he tells me it will prepare you for your future career.”

Lucy lay back against the pillows, puzzling over exactly what her future career was supposed to be, other than working as Martha’s helper, and anyhow she had a dress and did not want to go shopping, especially with a person she privately called “that woman.” Martha did not like Mehitabel and neither did Lucy, in fact, “creepy” was the way Lucy thought of her, though why that was, she did not understand. Still, and she’d bet she was not the only one, somehow she did not think Mehitabel was the winner in the popularity stakes, though admittedly Marco did want to paint her.

“I have a perfectly fine dress I can wear,” she said, thinking of the gray chiffon from the yacht party. “Martha will see I look all right, so no need for Mr. Ghulbian to worry.”

“He asked me personally to take care of you.” Mehitabel was insistent. “Especially since he has a piece of jewelry he wishes you to wear. So you see, Lucy, the dress has to go with the jewels.”

“Funny.” Lucy twisted a strand of blond hair absently in her fingers the way she did when she was bored or tired. “I always thought it was the other way round. Dress first. Then the bits and pieces, shoes, bracelets, tiaras,” she laughed at that idea, “came last.”

“These are important,” Mehitabel said firmly. “They are usually kept in a vault at the bank but we shall get them out specially for you. I’ll come round and pick you up in, say, half an hour?”

Lucy wondered why it was people were always wanting to come and pick her up in half an hour when the truth was she had only just gotten out of bed and had not yet so much as swallowed a cup of coffee. She glanced into the cubbyhole kitchen, saw the pot was still plugged in, found it still warm, poured what dregs were left into a mug which she first had to empty out. She didn’t bother to rinse it under the tap, after all she wasn’t about to get foot and mouth from whoever had drunk from it last. She smiled, thinking of Martha’s face if she had seen what she had just done, and maybe Martha was right and she should straighten up her slovenly ways, get her act together, become a woman. Soon to be an eighteen-year-old woman.