substance called charisma that movie stars must possess.
Her acting was not uncommonly described as unintentionally funny.
Okay, that wasn’t really true, but I still didn’t like the woman, though sometimes I wondered if I was being unjust. Maybe it was harder than I thought to be rich and beautiful and brainless.
Neal said there was a five-year qualifier in Angela’s prenup with Hiram: If they stayed married five years and a day, she would get full spousal rights as opposed to what she would get from the prenuptial contract. They were fast approaching that magic date, and bets were being placed as to whether Hiram would file for divorce because she would get a bigger piece of him if he didn’t.
I had my money on Angela. She was an attractive woman and no matter what I personally thought of her—in my old-fashioned, small-town mentality, a woman who married for money was a high-class whore—there was no denying that she was an appealing woman.
Once she found out I wasn’t after her husband, she tolerated me well. Fortunately, antiquities and museums and anything else that required thinking bored her, except when it brought camera crews.
While I found Hiram the Third uninteresting, I had to admit it wouldn’t be above me to take my turn on a casting-room couch for a chance to catch a billionaire. I know what that makes me, but as long as I was an expensive one, it didn’t bother my conscience at all. Simply marrying for money was a sin, but God would be forgiving if you married a whole lot of money.
Besides, I was curious about what it would be like to have a disposable marriage where one simply trashed it and moved on….
Hiram, of course, had no difficulty attracting beautiful women. He was on his third marriage and probably had at least one more in him. And I’m sure he didn’t fool himself into thinking that women were attracted to anything but his money.
Angela touched the emerald earring on her right ear and excused herself. “Eric’s been looking for you. Some business matter, he said. Go get yourself a drink first,” she said, as if reading my mind.
The earring obviously hid the receiver signaling an arriving guest.
She flew off, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake. I recognized the scent. Chanel No. 5. It had a distinctive smell that was hard to describe, a scent that had been around for decades, since the 1920s, in fact, and still retained its classy appeal. Personally, I preferred a more earthy, musky scent.
I spotted Eric as I made my way across the wide-open room. The cavernous space was too big, bare, and open for a living room. Its only purpose was for parties, so I supposed it was the modern penthouse version of a stately old mansion’s ballroom.
Eric was at the bar getting a drink. Even though the room was filled with people, it didn’t feel at all crowded. But like the auction house, the place smelled of money… magazine-quality interior design and furnishings and deep-pocket guests.
Marble was everywhere—walls, floors, and pillars—along with an intricately coffered ceiling. Splattered around the room were old master paintings and sculptures that contrasted with a modern high-gloss black grand piano. Nothing hanging on the walls was worth less than a million.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the art style lent itself toward European paintings rather than antiquities. Hiram had no interest in either style, leaving the penthouse art collection up to his personal art curator and the museum’s Mesopotamian character in the hands of hired help like me.
I walked by floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a stunning view outside. Neal mentioned the master bedroom level at the top of the building was surrounded by a terrace that captured a 360-degree view of the city.
An eclectic mix of people was in the room. As I moved by the guests, I acknowledged those I knew. Along with Hiram’s superrich friends were the cream of the nation’s art scene, gallery owners and superrich
Her acting was not uncommonly described as unintentionally funny.
Okay, that wasn’t really true, but I still didn’t like the woman, though sometimes I wondered if I was being unjust. Maybe it was harder than I thought to be rich and beautiful and brainless.
Neal said there was a five-year qualifier in Angela’s prenup with Hiram: If they stayed married five years and a day, she would get full spousal rights as opposed to what she would get from the prenuptial contract. They were fast approaching that magic date, and bets were being placed as to whether Hiram would file for divorce because she would get a bigger piece of him if he didn’t.
I had my money on Angela. She was an attractive woman and no matter what I personally thought of her—in my old-fashioned, small-town mentality, a woman who married for money was a high-class whore—there was no denying that she was an appealing woman.
Once she found out I wasn’t after her husband, she tolerated me well. Fortunately, antiquities and museums and anything else that required thinking bored her, except when it brought camera crews.
While I found Hiram the Third uninteresting, I had to admit it wouldn’t be above me to take my turn on a casting-room couch for a chance to catch a billionaire. I know what that makes me, but as long as I was an expensive one, it didn’t bother my conscience at all. Simply marrying for money was a sin, but God would be forgiving if you married a whole lot of money.
Besides, I was curious about what it would be like to have a disposable marriage where one simply trashed it and moved on….
Hiram, of course, had no difficulty attracting beautiful women. He was on his third marriage and probably had at least one more in him. And I’m sure he didn’t fool himself into thinking that women were attracted to anything but his money.
Angela touched the emerald earring on her right ear and excused herself. “Eric’s been looking for you. Some business matter, he said. Go get yourself a drink first,” she said, as if reading my mind.
The earring obviously hid the receiver signaling an arriving guest.
She flew off, leaving a whiff of perfume in her wake. I recognized the scent. Chanel No. 5. It had a distinctive smell that was hard to describe, a scent that had been around for decades, since the 1920s, in fact, and still retained its classy appeal. Personally, I preferred a more earthy, musky scent.
I spotted Eric as I made my way across the wide-open room. The cavernous space was too big, bare, and open for a living room. Its only purpose was for parties, so I supposed it was the modern penthouse version of a stately old mansion’s ballroom.
Eric was at the bar getting a drink. Even though the room was filled with people, it didn’t feel at all crowded. But like the auction house, the place smelled of money… magazine-quality interior design and furnishings and deep-pocket guests.
Marble was everywhere—walls, floors, and pillars—along with an intricately coffered ceiling. Splattered around the room were old master paintings and sculptures that contrasted with a modern high-gloss black grand piano. Nothing hanging on the walls was worth less than a million.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the art style lent itself toward European paintings rather than antiquities. Hiram had no interest in either style, leaving the penthouse art collection up to his personal art curator and the museum’s Mesopotamian character in the hands of hired help like me.
I walked by floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a stunning view outside. Neal mentioned the master bedroom level at the top of the building was surrounded by a terrace that captured a 360-degree view of the city.
An eclectic mix of people was in the room. As I moved by the guests, I acknowledged those I knew. Along with Hiram’s superrich friends were the cream of the nation’s art scene, gallery owners and superrich
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