the people know what’s hit them. It’s going to be fucking Armageddon, and TR Enterprises Ltd. is going to be driving the flaming chariot that rips the sky apart.”
Silence followed and Cynthia stood up. “We have chocolate torte for dessert. Anyone?”
Oliver smiled and seemed to forget all he’d been saying so passionately. He turned to Sunny. “Cynthia is the best pastry chef in the valley, hands down. Her chocolate torte is second only to my personal favorite, lemon meringue pie. You didn’t happen to whip up one of those, did you, Cynthia?”
Cynthia smiled and shook her head. “Not tonight. But I’ll see what I can do.”
----
They stayed a long time at the table under the stars and wisteria. After his pronouncements about the future of the global economy, Oliver didn’t say much more and eventually excused himself to attend to some urgent matter from his cell phone. Franco told stories about his childhood in Sicily, and Keith countered with his about growing up poor in Barbados. Finally the air cooled enough to drive them indoors and Oliver returned to pour cognac and port. Keith’s girlfriend arrived dressed in capri jeans, sandals with four-inch heels, and a lacey camisole. She came from Guam and looked like one of Gauguin’s Tahitian subjects. Her name was Marissa Lin. She gave Keith a kiss and went to Anna’s side, holding her hand and snuggling up to her the way some girlfriends do. Sunny had taken the comfortable chair, slightly distant from the others, and put her bare feet on the ottoman. Keith sat down on the edge of the ottoman and took up one of her feet, which he began to massage.
“You look tired.”
“A little. I got too much sun.” Sunny watched him rub her foot as though in a dream. She should stop him, but it felt too good.
“You look good with some color on that skin.”
“Thank you. What time is it?”
“It’s early.”
“Is it?”
“Relatively,” he said, switching feet.
Across the living room, Anna, Jordan, and Marissa were arranged like a liquor ad on the sofa, all legs, heels, and cocktail glasses. They were undeniably beautiful, each in a different way, though all with dark hair. Anna was tall, with golden skin and green eyes. Jordan was voluptuous, made up, and sexy in a Hollywood way. Next to them, Keith Lachlan’s girlfriend, Marissa, looked even more petite and delicate than she was. Nestled in among them was Oliver Seth, handsome in a boyish way, looking exactly like a man enjoying the hard-earned realization of his childhood fantasies.
Keith returned her foot to the ottoman and stood up. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I think I’m good for now.”
“You need a bump?”
“A bump?”
“A pick-me-up.”
“What do you have in mind?”
He gave her a knowing smile. “You like coke?”
“Lowercase C?” She shook her head. “Afraid not. Not my thing. Sensitive nose.”
“You’re kidding. Aren’t you in the restaurant business? I thought foodies lived on blow.”
“I’m more the double espresso type.”
“Good for you.” He went to join Oliver and the girls and Sunny left to prowl the house. She found Franco Bertinotti looking through the glass at the wine collection. He’d changed out of his black trunks into jeans and a linen shirt.
“This bastard really knows how to buy wine,” he said. “If somebody has to be as rich as Seth, I’m glad it’s him. At least he knows what to do with it.”
“Do you know how he made his money?”
“The usual way. Rob, pillage, and plunder.”
“Seriously.”
“My dear, I am being serious. No one achieves the rapturous decadence of your current surroundings without a great deal of compromise, on everyone’s part.”
----
Sunny followed the faint sound of talk punctuated by laughter. Franco, whom she’d been talking with for the past half hour, had gone to bed. The others had vanished. Now she tracked them to the double doors off the lounge with the red neon. Outside, a fire was
Silence followed and Cynthia stood up. “We have chocolate torte for dessert. Anyone?”
Oliver smiled and seemed to forget all he’d been saying so passionately. He turned to Sunny. “Cynthia is the best pastry chef in the valley, hands down. Her chocolate torte is second only to my personal favorite, lemon meringue pie. You didn’t happen to whip up one of those, did you, Cynthia?”
Cynthia smiled and shook her head. “Not tonight. But I’ll see what I can do.”
----
They stayed a long time at the table under the stars and wisteria. After his pronouncements about the future of the global economy, Oliver didn’t say much more and eventually excused himself to attend to some urgent matter from his cell phone. Franco told stories about his childhood in Sicily, and Keith countered with his about growing up poor in Barbados. Finally the air cooled enough to drive them indoors and Oliver returned to pour cognac and port. Keith’s girlfriend arrived dressed in capri jeans, sandals with four-inch heels, and a lacey camisole. She came from Guam and looked like one of Gauguin’s Tahitian subjects. Her name was Marissa Lin. She gave Keith a kiss and went to Anna’s side, holding her hand and snuggling up to her the way some girlfriends do. Sunny had taken the comfortable chair, slightly distant from the others, and put her bare feet on the ottoman. Keith sat down on the edge of the ottoman and took up one of her feet, which he began to massage.
“You look tired.”
“A little. I got too much sun.” Sunny watched him rub her foot as though in a dream. She should stop him, but it felt too good.
“You look good with some color on that skin.”
“Thank you. What time is it?”
“It’s early.”
“Is it?”
“Relatively,” he said, switching feet.
Across the living room, Anna, Jordan, and Marissa were arranged like a liquor ad on the sofa, all legs, heels, and cocktail glasses. They were undeniably beautiful, each in a different way, though all with dark hair. Anna was tall, with golden skin and green eyes. Jordan was voluptuous, made up, and sexy in a Hollywood way. Next to them, Keith Lachlan’s girlfriend, Marissa, looked even more petite and delicate than she was. Nestled in among them was Oliver Seth, handsome in a boyish way, looking exactly like a man enjoying the hard-earned realization of his childhood fantasies.
Keith returned her foot to the ottoman and stood up. “Can I get you a drink?”
“I think I’m good for now.”
“You need a bump?”
“A bump?”
“A pick-me-up.”
“What do you have in mind?”
He gave her a knowing smile. “You like coke?”
“Lowercase C?” She shook her head. “Afraid not. Not my thing. Sensitive nose.”
“You’re kidding. Aren’t you in the restaurant business? I thought foodies lived on blow.”
“I’m more the double espresso type.”
“Good for you.” He went to join Oliver and the girls and Sunny left to prowl the house. She found Franco Bertinotti looking through the glass at the wine collection. He’d changed out of his black trunks into jeans and a linen shirt.
“This bastard really knows how to buy wine,” he said. “If somebody has to be as rich as Seth, I’m glad it’s him. At least he knows what to do with it.”
“Do you know how he made his money?”
“The usual way. Rob, pillage, and plunder.”
“Seriously.”
“My dear, I am being serious. No one achieves the rapturous decadence of your current surroundings without a great deal of compromise, on everyone’s part.”
----
Sunny followed the faint sound of talk punctuated by laughter. Franco, whom she’d been talking with for the past half hour, had gone to bed. The others had vanished. Now she tracked them to the double doors off the lounge with the red neon. Outside, a fire was
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