in her red-haired wake. I sat there, my eyebrows frozen in shock, until the elevator door had closed.
I slid down on the couch and stared up at the domed ceiling overhead. Then I let out one dramatic sigh and pulled myself upright.
Outside, the sky was clearing. The late-afternoon sun glittered on the water. I watched it, reviewing my exchange with the twins in my head. They were horrible. Awful. Nasty and wretched.
But their grandmother might be right. Maybe, just maybe , they were not stupid.
Choose the most correct definition for the following word: HEIRESS
(a) female destined to inherit millions without working a day in her life (b) 50 percent physical perfection, 50 percent emotional cruelty (c) vacuous, without possession of reason or, apparently, a soul (d) entitled, prissy bitch
(e) all of the above
chapter eight
Where are you again? Palm Springs?‖ Charma asked me. ―Like, in California?‖
―Palm Beach. Like, in Florida.‖
―Never been there.‖
―Me, neither, but evidently, this is where the beautiful people congregate and tell each other how beautiful they are.‖ I leaned back on the plush magenta-and-white-polka-dotted divan in the den of my suite at the twins‘ mansion. It was a few light-years nicer than the found-it-on-the-street futon that used to pass for a couch in my apartment.
A half hour before, charm-free Mr. Anderson had led me silently through the muggy evening along a long white gravel walkway from the main mansion to the twins‘ mini-mansion. Tall French-style hedgerows guarded the sides of the path, which meant I couldn‘t see the rest of the estate. When we arrived at the front of the twins‘ manse, though, there was no missing it. Done in a pink one shade lighter than Laurel‘s house, it was a dead ringer for Tara from Gone with the Wind, right down to the columns, and minus the color scheme.
―Addison Mizner,‖ the Skull intoned.
―Excuse me?‖
―The architect,‖ he clarified, which clarified nothing for me. He opened the door and led the way through a foyer only slightly less spectacular than Laurel‘s to an enormous winding staircase. Upstairs were two corridors leading in opposite directions. ―The twins,‖ he uttered, casting his eyes to the left. ―You,‖ casting his eyes to the right.
Down the corridor we went, until he stopped at a large white door. ―Your quarters.
Good night.‖
He headed back the same way we‘d come, and I opened the door to what would be home for the night—maybe longer if I could stomach ever coming face-to-face with the twins again. The wallpaper was muted pink and white, and a velvet divan had been placed directly under a picture window overlooking the Atlantic. It was too dark to see the water, but a few sparkling lights twinkled in the distance. There was a white antique desk where I could set up my iBook, along with a high-backed pink leather chair and several hassocks. On the far wall was what I guessed to be a sixty-inch flat-screen TV.
An archway opened into a massive bedroom with a canopied king-size bed and a walkin closet that—like Les Anges‘s foyer—was roughly the size of my entire East Village apartment.
I went back into the den and called James, but I hit his voice mail. My second call was to Charma, who took the news of my rapid deployment to South Florida with her usual deadpan aplomb. I tried to describe Sage and Rose, suggesting she picture the biggest bitch from when she‘d been a senior in high school, multiply her times infinity, and then split her in two. That was the Baker twins.
I told her I loathed them. I also told her how much I would make in a week.
―Hire a Cuban dominatrix from Miami to lash them to a bed if you have to, Megan,‖
Charma droned as I opened the mini-fridge in the closet. It was empty, but inside was a note: Summon Marco for provisions . Who the hell was Marco? ―Stay there and bring Mama home something nice,‖ she told me sternly.
―Seriously, Charma. I
I slid down on the couch and stared up at the domed ceiling overhead. Then I let out one dramatic sigh and pulled myself upright.
Outside, the sky was clearing. The late-afternoon sun glittered on the water. I watched it, reviewing my exchange with the twins in my head. They were horrible. Awful. Nasty and wretched.
But their grandmother might be right. Maybe, just maybe , they were not stupid.
Choose the most correct definition for the following word: HEIRESS
(a) female destined to inherit millions without working a day in her life (b) 50 percent physical perfection, 50 percent emotional cruelty (c) vacuous, without possession of reason or, apparently, a soul (d) entitled, prissy bitch
(e) all of the above
chapter eight
Where are you again? Palm Springs?‖ Charma asked me. ―Like, in California?‖
―Palm Beach. Like, in Florida.‖
―Never been there.‖
―Me, neither, but evidently, this is where the beautiful people congregate and tell each other how beautiful they are.‖ I leaned back on the plush magenta-and-white-polka-dotted divan in the den of my suite at the twins‘ mansion. It was a few light-years nicer than the found-it-on-the-street futon that used to pass for a couch in my apartment.
A half hour before, charm-free Mr. Anderson had led me silently through the muggy evening along a long white gravel walkway from the main mansion to the twins‘ mini-mansion. Tall French-style hedgerows guarded the sides of the path, which meant I couldn‘t see the rest of the estate. When we arrived at the front of the twins‘ manse, though, there was no missing it. Done in a pink one shade lighter than Laurel‘s house, it was a dead ringer for Tara from Gone with the Wind, right down to the columns, and minus the color scheme.
―Addison Mizner,‖ the Skull intoned.
―Excuse me?‖
―The architect,‖ he clarified, which clarified nothing for me. He opened the door and led the way through a foyer only slightly less spectacular than Laurel‘s to an enormous winding staircase. Upstairs were two corridors leading in opposite directions. ―The twins,‖ he uttered, casting his eyes to the left. ―You,‖ casting his eyes to the right.
Down the corridor we went, until he stopped at a large white door. ―Your quarters.
Good night.‖
He headed back the same way we‘d come, and I opened the door to what would be home for the night—maybe longer if I could stomach ever coming face-to-face with the twins again. The wallpaper was muted pink and white, and a velvet divan had been placed directly under a picture window overlooking the Atlantic. It was too dark to see the water, but a few sparkling lights twinkled in the distance. There was a white antique desk where I could set up my iBook, along with a high-backed pink leather chair and several hassocks. On the far wall was what I guessed to be a sixty-inch flat-screen TV.
An archway opened into a massive bedroom with a canopied king-size bed and a walkin closet that—like Les Anges‘s foyer—was roughly the size of my entire East Village apartment.
I went back into the den and called James, but I hit his voice mail. My second call was to Charma, who took the news of my rapid deployment to South Florida with her usual deadpan aplomb. I tried to describe Sage and Rose, suggesting she picture the biggest bitch from when she‘d been a senior in high school, multiply her times infinity, and then split her in two. That was the Baker twins.
I told her I loathed them. I also told her how much I would make in a week.
―Hire a Cuban dominatrix from Miami to lash them to a bed if you have to, Megan,‖
Charma droned as I opened the mini-fridge in the closet. It was empty, but inside was a note: Summon Marco for provisions . Who the hell was Marco? ―Stay there and bring Mama home something nice,‖ she told me sternly.
―Seriously, Charma. I
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