PRICELESS

NICOLE RICHIE

To the priceless moments in your life

CONTENTS

Cover Page

Title Page

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY ONE

Chapter TWENTY TWO

Chapter TWENTY THREE

Chapter TWENTY FOUR

Chapter TWENTY FIVE

Chapter TWENTY SIX

Chapter TWENTY SEVEN

Chapter TWENTY EIGHT

Chapter TWENTY NINE

Chapter THIRTY

Chapter THIRTY ONE

Chapter THIRTY TWO

Chapter THIRTY THREE

Chapter THIRTY FOUR

Chapter THIRTY FIVE

Chapter THIRTY SIX

Chapter THIRTY SEVEN

Chapter THIRTY EIGHT

Chapter THIRTY NINE

Chapter FORTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Also by Nicole Richie

Copyright

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Chapter ONE

As the beautiful young woman strode through the international arrivals terminal at JFK, several people turned to look. A flight attendant noticed the way she carried herself, the clothes she wore, her shoes, and guessed she’d just walked out of first class. She was right. A young man pulling espresso paused, distracted by the girl’s obvious sexuality and lovely figure. She felt his gaze and turned slightly, favoring him with a brief smile that made his hand jump, causing him to scald himself. A man in a Savile Row suit lowered his Wall Street Journal and raised his eyebrows. Hmm. Charlotte Williams was back. Her father would be happy. The market would go up. He folded his paper and called his broker.

Charlotte descended the escalator, scanning the crowd waiting for arrivals. She smiled; there was Davis. He caught her eye and smiled back. He already had her bags.

“Hello, Davis, how nice to see a familiar face so soon.” She shook his hand.

“Miss Charlotte, it’s a pleasure to have you back in New York. The city has been very quiet without you.”

She laughed. “I doubt that, Davis, but thanks. Is the car very far? My shoes are killing me.” She’d worn sweats for the flight, but just before they began their descent, she’d changed into her city clothes. Louboutins, which were pinching her feet after only a hundred yards, a Marc Jacobs dress from spring ‘09, with a wide wrapped belt, a cashmere sweater coat. Still comfortable and easy to wear but appropriate for public viewing.

He shook his head. “Just outside, Miss.”

Indeed, the long, low Mercedes was parked right in front, in a red zone, a cop very slowly writing a ticket for it. He saw them coming and looked around, making sure no one saw Davis slipping him a folded bill. Charlotte kicked off her shoes and relaxed as Davis expertly navigated the traffic back into town.

It was very good to be home.

—————

HOWEVER, NO ONE except the staff was home to welcome her. The housekeeper was the same, but a young man she hadn’t seen before was working on the plants. She looked him over and decided to save him for later. Sitting on her bed, she surveyed her room.

“Your father had it repainted for you.” The housekeeper was unpacking her things, silently evaluating and appreciating the silken underwear, the fine labels: La Perla, Aubade, Eres.

“How did he manage to do that and yet have it look exactly the same?” Every doll, every picture, every photo was precisely where she had left it the year before.

Greta shrugged. “He spent a lot of time in here while you were away.” She looked around. “And he paid a designer to draw a map of where everything was.” She smiled at the memory. “It was quite a task.”

Charlotte frowned, tucking her long blond hair behind her ears. “Why was he in here so much?” She pulled her feet up onto her bed, pausing at a glance from Greta, removing her shoes.

Greta smoothed her gray uniform over her hips, before heading out the door. “He misses your mother, and he missed you. He’s going to be very glad to see you tonight.”

“Do you expect him for dinner?”

“No. I think later than that.”

Charlotte nodded. It was rare that her father was home before ten; it had always been that way. She’d eaten dinner alone every night, once she no longer had a nanny. She would curl up in his study, after her homework was done, and fall asleep waiting for him. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember the feeling of being lifted from the chair, the smell of whiskey and cigars, the roughness of his stubble as he kissed her, the smooth wool of his suit jacket. They would sit by the fire while he told her about his day, spinning fairy tales about the world of money and the knights and dragons that lived there. He was wonderful, when he was with her, and Charlotte loved him deeply. He just wasn’t there very much.

But while his work had kept them apart, it had also paid for this triplex on the park, a pony stabled at 89th Street (until the stable closed), a new Jaguar for her eighteenth birthday, an apartment in Le Marais for her year in Paris, and all the clothes and jewelry she could ever want. She had a lot to be grateful for. If she felt she’d missed out on a lot, too, she never said so.

CHARLOTTE CALLED SOME friends and set up an impromptu welcome-home dinner for herself. Then she threw open her closet doors and walked in, stepping between the racks, flipping hangers. The closet was nearly twenty feet long and curated like a gallery. On one side were pants, suits, jackets. The other held dresses, skirts, shirts. Everything from Abercrombie to Alaïa. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held four dozen pairs of shoes, each in a clear plastic box. Sometimes, when she’d been a bored teen, she would rearrange her closet by designer. Or decade. Or color. She’d been bored a lot.

Her favorite section held her mother’s clothes, those her father had kept. Her mother had died in a car accident when Charlotte was seven. On her way back from a party, for once without her husband, stone-cold sober and apparently driving below the speed limit. Another driver, drunk, high, traveling at nearly eighty on a cross street, had run the light at Fifth and rammed her car from the side, killing her instantly. He, of course, had gotten out of his car and walked away. Charlotte barely remembered her, though the house was filled with photographs. Jackie Williams had been a great model, internationally known and instantly recognized, and Charlotte had inherited her slanted green eyes and wide mouth. Her death had rocked the fashion world, and Charlotte’s main memory of that time was that the phone never stopped ringing. Her father had come home from the funeral and pulled it out of the wall, locking himself in his study, drinking and sobbing inconsolably. When he’d come out and found Jackie’s assistants packing up her clothes, he’d flown into a terrible rage, firing them on the spot and carefully smoothing each garment, delicately replacing them on their padded hangers, closing the closet door quietly.

Now Charlotte had a world-class collection of semi-vintage couture, and she knew the details and history of each piece. Many of them were one-offs, worn in runway shows and tailored for her mother. Jackie had been taller and thinner than Charlotte, who had a little more curve to her figure, and many of the pieces simply wouldn’t fit. But many did, and she loved pulling something unique from the collection.

Tonight she picked a simple slip dress by Galliano, one of his less flamboyant pieces, and looked at herself critically in the mirror.

She knew she was beautiful, and she knew she was attractive to men, but she couldn’t help comparing herself with her mother. Or, rather, with the images of her mother, because she’d never really known her mom. The public Jackie had been aloof and elegant, famous for her platinum hair and regal bearing. Charlotte was sexier, warmer. Her hair had honeyed streaks mixed with the pale cream, some of them almost dark. Her mother’s hair had been board-straight, but hers was tousled and curled and hard to control. She was feeling a little nervous, strangely, going out for the first time, and reached for her war paint, leaving her hair loose and wild. Her skin needed no foundation, but she dusted it with shimmery blush to bring out her cheekbones. In Paris, the women had worn minimal eye makeup, and she followed their lead, simply shadowing her lids with a pale aqua that brought out the subtle turquoise in her eyes and finishing with a razor-thin line of liquid eyeliner. Several coats of mascara and matte red lipstick later, she was ready.

Jewelry. She’d nearly forgotten. In the center of her closet was a Chinese chest, priceless in itself, its many lacquered drawers holding a small fortune in jewels and precious metals. Her father loved to buy jewelry and was something of a snob about it. His wife’s collection had included dozens of antiques alongside important contemporary pieces. Charlotte opened drawer after drawer, looking for the perfect thing. A single cabochon emerald on a long golden chain hung between her breasts and added green to her eyes. Time for battle.

Chapter TWO

When Charlotte had left for Paris the year before, Le Petit Champignon was relatively new, perching precariously on Jane Street. She’d adopted it, loving its richly delicious vegetarian cuisine. The chef was famous for saying, “Just because it’s vegetarian doesn’t mean it has to be good for you,” and the rich sauces and abundant butter showed he was as good as his word. Apparently, the news had gotten out, for when Davis dropped her in front, there was a line.

“Will you call, Miss?”

She nodded. The one time she’d ridden the subway home, her father had taken her aside.

“Charlotte, the world is full of interesting people. However, it isn’t necessary to become intimately acquainted with a hundred of them in the unventilated confines of a subway car. Please call Davis when you need to go anywhere. That’s what he’s for.”

Jean-Claude, the maitre d', recognized her as soon as she walked in.

“Miss Williams! Paris’s loss is our gain. I saw your name on the list and hoped it was you. I have your favorite table ready.”

Two people were already there, James and Zeb. High school friends. They stood to embrace her.

“You’re even skinnier than when you left, you bitch. How is that possible?” Zeb was gay and not all that subtle. “Don’t the French eat nothing but lard and cheese?”

James shushed him. “Keep your voice down, Zeb. We’re not at the club yet. Maybe she took up smoking; it keeps you thin.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Thin and stinky. Not likely. I think Zeb’s memory has just been affected by all those club drugs and pretty boys he likes to inhale.”

“I don’t inhale the boys.”

“Just swallow?”

Zeb giggled.

James poured Charlotte a glass of 2007 Malbec and raised his own.

“To the lovely Charlotte. Welcome home, my sweet.” She and James had briefly been friends with benefits, and when he smiled his pussycat smile at her, she remembered his … gifts. She wondered idly if she should rekindle the relationship. There was nothing else on the horizon.

The door was flung open, and Clara, Jane, and Emily burst in. The three weird sisters. Only Jane and Emily were actually sisters, a twist of fertility making them eleven months apart in age but in the same school year. Alternately sworn enemies and best friends, they were a force of nature. Clara was the peacemaker, a cousin of some sort. There are a lot of relationships among the super rich of Manhattan: cousins, second cousins, related by marriage, related in secret. There aren’t that many people living in 10021, and when you don’t need to work, there’s a lot of time to fill.

“Charlotte!” There was squealing. And hugging. And cheek kissing.

Eventually, they settled down to the serious business of catching up.

Over appetizers, the sisters brought her up to date on all the gossip in their small circle.

Emily was appalled. “And did you know that Bebe was secretly sleeping with her boyfriend’s sister? I mean, come on, this isn’t reality TV.” The candlelight flickered on her dark, wavy hair, her perfect nose the product of superior plastic surgery.

Charlotte was amused. “Younger or older sister?”

“Older. She was away at Vassar when Bebe started dating Tim, and she came back for spring break and apparently thought little Timmy should share his good fortune.” She sighed. “It all got very East Village, apparently.” She cut into her spring roll thoughtfully.

James grinned. “Whatever that means.” He refilled their glasses. Charlotte could tell she was getting a little drunk, because he was starting to look better and better.

Clara had news, too. “Do you remember Jemima Rhodes?” They all did. “Her mother lost her job when Bear Stearns collapsed, and they had to sell the beach cottage. We were all gutted.” (The beach cottage was a sixteen-bedroom mansion overlooking the ocean in East Hampton.) “I mean, where are we going for Fourth of July this summer?” She dropped her voice. “I heard they were going to rent someplace.” A pause. “On the North Fork.” The three women shuddered, delighted.

Charlotte picked at her salad, enjoying the familiar sound of pointless gossip. You could always rely on these three to know everything that was going on. Emily and Jane were the middle daughters of a large family who’d owned most of the Upper West Side since the 1920s. The UWS connection made them the token “artistic ones” at their ultraconservative Upper East Side school, and they were allowed a little leeway in terms of behavior. Clara was a slightly inbred blue blood whose family had come over on the Mayflower and made their fortune shortly thereafter. Charlotte wasn’t quite sure how they’d made the money. Button hooks? Buggy whips? Something archaic. No one in Clara’s family had worked for generations, but they did a lot of Good Works and Sat on Boards. Clara had been very successful at school and at one point rashly expressed a desire to go to MIT. No one of her class ever tried that hard, she was informed, and she dropped it. Stiff upper lip, maybe, but backbone? Not so much.

James got up to go to the bathroom and met Charlotte’s eye meaningfully. She sighed. Why not? She waited a moment, then followed him. She knocked softly on the bathroom door, and he pulled her in.

“Charlotte Williams, of all people, fancy meeting you here.” James was nuzzling at her neck, his hands reaching around behind her, starting to pull up her slip dress.

She grabbed his wrists firmly. “James.”

“Hmm, you want to play a little? I can do that.” He flipped his hands around, grabbing hers and pinning them above her head. His head dipped, aiming for her breast.

“James, no.” Her tone was clear, and he paused.

“What’s up, dearest? Don’t you want to make up for the past year? We can fuck once before the main course and again before dessert. It’ll be just like old times.”

“And that,” Charlotte said firmly, pushing him away, “is the problem.” She sighed. “You’re a sweet boy, but I’m just not feeling it. Do you know what I mean? After all, a year of French men kind of elevates your standards.”

He pouted. James was extremely good-looking and couldn’t keep track of all his women. Charlotte pushing him off wasn’t going to dent his ego for more than a second.

“So why did you follow me?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I’d finished my appetizer and had time to kill.”

James straightened his pants and washed his hands. “You’re a bit of a bitch, Charlie, my sweet.”

Charlotte nodded. “You’re not the first to say so, love.”

And with that, she walked out, leaving the door open.

Chapter THREE

It was incredibly loud and hot in the club. The pulsing bass lines could be physically felt in every pair of panties in the place, which might explain the glassy expressions and elevated heart rates. Drugs, of course, may have had something to do with it. Not that there were drugs there. That would be illegal.

If you’d walked down this particular side street in Alphabet City, you’d have thought someone was having a party. No lines. No signs. No ropes. Just the distant sound of very loud music. You had to call ahead to get into this club, and if they bothered to answer the phone, you’d get an arrival time, and that was it. Your driver pulled up, the door opened, and you were let in. Charlotte simply texted the club owner. Regular cell-phone calls were for regular people.

He was waiting for her with a hug at the top of the stairs, and he embraced the other girls, too.

“Charlie, it’s been an age. I think I was on the West Side Highway when you left.” He laughed. “That was two spaces ago!”

Charlotte smiled at him. Only a handful of people got to call her Charlie, and Nick was one of them. He’d been at school with her, and she’d helped him get his first club off the ground. Clubs like Nick’s tended to move: it’s not the space, it’s the mix. You had to stay one step ahead of the police, two steps ahead of the East Village hipsters, and three steps ahead of the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. Nick was a master. As soon as he found one location, he started looking for the next. A warehouse in DUMBO. An abandoned department store above Harlem. A townhouse being gutted in the West Village. His clientele were the young, the rich, and the bored. They came to him to be entertained, to see their friends, to watch the show.

“Who’s here?” Charlotte leaned closer to hear his answer.

He took her hand and pulled her to one side. “Actually, lovely, Taylor is here. I nearly told you not to come, but then I thought enough water might have flowed under the bridge by now.”

Charlotte felt herself get colder, despite the sweaty heat of the club. “Oh.”

Nick pulled back and looked at her. “Ah, I see I was wrong.” “Is she with him?”

“Are you crazy? No, love, she’s long gone. He’s with Stacy Star tonight. And her girlfriend. And her girlfriend’s girlfriend.” He coughed. “Celebrities, what can I say?” Charlotte raised her eyebrows, but Nick just shook his head. “Ignore him, sweetheart. You were always too good for him, anyway.”

Charlotte sighed. During her first year at Yale, she’d fallen deeply in love with Taylor Augustine. He was a couple of years ahead of her, studying European literature, and was totally gorgeous. He considered himself a beat poet for the twenty-first century, and he mumbled a lot. He and Charlotte hung out in bed most of the time, reading poetry and smoking weed. Then, suddenly, he decided that was too bourgeois and dumped her for a fiery political science major who thought shaving her underarms was bowing to the Man.

Charlotte had been devastated. It was literally the first time she couldn’t have something she wanted, and she hadn’t handled it very well. Not well at all. Drunk and furious, she’d torched the political science building.

Luckily, her father was able to step in and offer to rebuild those parts of the building that hadn’t burned to the ground, and he and the Yale board had agreed that Charlotte should spend her sophomore year elsewhere. Europe might be far enough, they thought, and the Sorbonne acquired a new student and an updated computer system.

And now here she was, back less than a day, and already she’d run into him. Sometimes life was just a bitch.

AS SHE WALKED into the main part of the club, she saw that things hadn’t changed much while she’d been away. Anyone who was young, gorgeous, rich, or horny was there, and most of Nick’s guests were all four. Beautiful girls and boys danced essentially naked on podiums all around the club, and everyone pretended not to look at them while at the same time hoping they were being looked at themselves. Same same. She turned to Nick, who was following her in, presumably to make sure she didn’t set fire to his club.

“I see you’re still working the ugly beat.”

He shrugged. “What can I do? The beautiful are drawn to me—why else would you be here?” He looked around, his experienced eyes seeing everything, despite the candlelight and heavy smoke. “There. He’s in that corner.”

Charlotte took a moment to make him out, but then her heart stopped. Taylor. Still gorgeous, although now he seemed to be working a gangsta look, which is hard when you’re from Connecticut and your father is the president of a major bank. The closest he ever got to the threat of violence was hiding from the townies in New Haven. Loose pants, slumped posture, lots of bling, and three girls dressed as sluts from the future on either side. Bottle of Courvoisier on the table. Bottle of Cristal, presumably for the sluts.

Nick squeezed her arm. “Are you going to cause trouble, or are you cool?”

“I’m cool.”

“Don’t light any fires, promise?

” “That was more than a year ago.”

“Do you even have matches?”

“No, you idiot. Besides, look around. The place is full of candles and drunks. About six hundred people are in danger of burning the place down. If the fire marshal comes in … ”

He quickly put his hand over her mouth. “Don’t ever, ever say those two words in my presence again.” He raised his finger. “I mean it, it’s bad luck. Don’t make me block your number.”

She laughed and watched him melt into the crowd. In the far corner, as far from Taylor as possible, her dinner posse had set up camp, and James was apparently trying to persuade two pole dancers to let him join them onstage. They really weren’t interested, but they were drunk enough to let him try.

Emily and Jane waved her over. She sighed inwardly and headed in their direction. In many ways, these clubs were where she lived or, at least, where the public face of Charlotte Williams lived. Before she’d discovered her inner bitch and realized that people found her entertaining when she was naughty, she’d found clubs scary. And they still made her feel anxious inside, but she guessed everyone felt that way when the world was looking at them. Not that any of her crowd would ever admit it.

“Did you see Taylor?” Jane looked worried.

Charlotte nodded. “It’s OK. It’s been a long time.”

“Did you see who he’s with?” Emily looked excited.

Charlotte nodded again. “Stacy Star.”

Zeb was beside himself. “I have all her albums. She’s outrageous. She worked the runway for Gaultier, and it was beyond fabulous. She’s awesome.”

Charlotte looked at him. “You’re babbling, Zeb. Calm down.”

He was quivering like a greyhound. “I can’t. She’s awesome. I love her.”

Charlotte frowned, indicating to a passing waitress that she needed service. The waitress ignored her. “Zeb, I went to preschool with her. Her real name is Stacy Fishbein.”

Zeb refused to be put off. “Well, good for her that she changed it, then. I’d change mine if I could.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“My parents. They think Zebediah is a cool name for a faggot. Fucking hippies. They’re so accepting, it’s really annoying.”

The waitress came over, finally. Charlotte smiled up at her.

“Did Nick make you wear that, or are those your own clothes?”

The waitress was wearing a peekaboo bra, with glitter on her nipples and short-shorts. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re a friend of Nick’s?”

“I’m a very good friend of Nick’s. You must be new, or you’d know me by sight and would already have brought me a Grey Goose and grapefruit, which is what I always have. I never pay, and neither does anyone with me.”

The waitress started to laugh. “You’re joking, right?”

The rest of the table went quiet. The waitress looked nervous. She looked over at Nick, who was watching her. He raised his eyebrows and made a gesture with his hand that made it clear she was to give Charlotte anything she wanted.

“Uh, I’ll get you your drink right away. Sorry.” She turned to go.

“Show me your tits.” James was being insolent, but Charlotte let it go. New staff need to be taught a lesson sometimes.

The waitress turned back. She was actually very pretty. “No. Fuck off.”

Pretty and feisty. That was hot, and James became more interested.

“No, really, take off your bra, and let me touch your tits. In fact, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll let me see it all. Otherwise, Charlotte will tell Nick you’re out of here.”

Charlotte sighed. This was too much. “No, I won’t, James. Get a grip. Go get us our drinks, OK?” The waitress hurried away.

James was annoyed. “I want the waitress, Charlotte.”

Charlotte shrugged. “Well, why not go about it the usual way, James? Talk to her for ten minutes, and tell her she’s pretty. It usually works for you, right? Of course, now you’ve got your asshole behavior to overcome, so it might take you half an hour.”

She was watching Taylor. He hadn’t seen her yet. Time to make a move.

She stood up, tousling her hair and smoothing her dress. “Come on, James, come dance with me.” She felt hollow inside, but she couldn’t let anyone see it.

James was sulking. He shook his head.

Charlotte smiled at him. “Come on. We’ll make it so hot the waitress won’t be able to help herself, and she’ll go down on you on the dance floor.”

James smiled. He really was a very simple creature. He stood up, elegant and tall, and took her hand.

The dance floor had been full not a moment before, but somehow it had had one of those sudden shifts, where half the people wander off for a drink. Everyone could see Charlotte and James as they walked on, and since most of the club knew who they were, there was lots of whispering.

Charlotte began to dance sinuously. She knew she looked good, and dancing always turned her on. She and James had actually done this many times before; it was how they’d hooked up. There was something about their chemistry that turned dancing into foreplay. She could feel Taylor watching her now and touched herself, shimmying the silk of her dress over her body until her nipples became hard, clearly visible through the thin fabric. James was moving very close to her, their hips pressed against each other, swinging and moving in time. James took her long hair in one hand and wound it around his wrist, pulling her head back so he could start licking her neck. His other hand curved around her breast, squeezing it and pulling on the already hard nipple until she felt herself growing aroused. The dance floor was clear now, and even the pole dancers were watching. Charlotte suddenly twisted away from James and turned her back on him, making him grab her hips and pull her against him, closing his eyes. Charlotte saw the waitress watching and beckoned her over.

“He’s all yours, love. Enjoy.” She kissed the girl on the mouth, just for fun, and wandered over to Taylor’s table.

Taylor watched her approach, his face hard to read. Stacy Star was an easier book.

“Charlotte Williams, the last time I saw you, you were playing with Legos. You grew up so nicely! My girlfriend wants to eat you all up, don’t you, honey?”

Honey nodded, sucking her finger. “You’re pretty.”

Charlotte smiled at her kindly. “You’re a moron. You should all go away now. I want to talk to Taylor. Go lick each other in the bathroom.”

Stacy started to get pissed off but then shrugged. “Why not? Come on, ladies, I need a touch-up, if you know what I mean.” She giggled, then quickly bent over and snorted two lines of coke that had been hidden behind her drink. Rubbing some on her gums, she stood and swayed a little, pulling the other girls with her.

Charlotte sat down, sweeping the rest of the coke onto the floor with the back of her hand. Taylor started to protest but didn’t bother. Coke was cheap.

“What’s up, Charlotte? Long time no see, baby.”

“It’s only been a year, Taylor. What happened to Phillipa?”

He shrugged. “She started dating a commodities trader with a house in the Bahamas.”

“So now you’re seeing Stacy Fishbein?”

“She doesn’t use that name anymore. I want to work in the music business, you know. She knows people. She’s a hot commodity right now, and she likes me. Why not?” Charlotte said nothing. Taylor lit a cigarette, another new habit. “I graduated, sweetness, and not all of us have Daddy to buy us out of trouble. I have to work, have to get a career going.”

“Really? I would have thought that was optional.”

He shook his head. “No, I want to work.”

She was surprised. He really didn’t need to. His family was almost as wealthy as hers. She looked at him again. Blond hair to his shoulders, stubble, a face like a model, he still made her ache inside.

And yet. It passed. She felt the attraction suddenly ebbing and thanked whatever higher power had decided to set her free.

As if he could read her mind, Taylor spoke again. “You still make me hot, Charlotte. Come home with us. Stacy throws a mean party, if you know what I mean. I know you like it. We used to ball all night, remember?”

“I remember. But no thanks, Taylor. It’s not worth re-lighting that fire, if you’ll pardon the phrase.”

His smile faded as she walked away. But hers just grew bigger and bigger.

Chapter FOUR

Her father had waited up for her, of course. She dropped her house keys on the hall table and paused, listening.

“The lovely girl, the lovely day … “

She smiled. Her father had a great voice, a secret she kept for him, and singing together was one of their private pleasures. This was a song he’d made up for her as a little girl.

“A perfect time to run and play … “

Charlotte’s voice was not a secret. Singing “Happy Birthday” at the age of five, she had silenced a room. People really listened when she sang, and at first it made her shy and frightened. But when Millie, her beloved nanny, had told her father she really had talent, her father had encouraged her, sent her to the best teachers, and, most of all, loved to listen to her. Her voice was deep, smooth, with the barest hint of a rasp.

“Daddy’s here, won’t go away … “

Charlotte followed the sound of his voice, finding him, as expected, standing by the fire in his study.

“And in his arms you’ll always stay. “

They finished the line together, laughing, and Jacob Williams held out his arms. She stepped into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder, the cashmere of his jacket feeling just as wonderful as it always did. No cigar smoke anymore—she’d made him quit.

He kissed the top of her smooth head and stepped to the sideboard. “Drink?” He topped up his scotch glass, the ice cubes tumbling together.

Charlotte nodded. “A little.”

“Scotch?”

“Brandy.”

He nodded, reaching for the bottle.

She curled up on the sofa, the glass warming in her hands, and smiled broadly at him. At home, she could just be herself.

“So, Daddy, what’s new on the Street?”

He laughed. “Like you have any interest at all.”

She pretended to be offended, kicking her shoes off onto the floor. “Of course I’m interested. Just because I don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not interesting. I don’t really get Greek philosophy, but I like to listen to people talk about it.”

“You do?” His look was quizzical. “Bullshit.”

She laughed.

“But since you asked, there was a nice pop in the market today, and quite a few people got very rich.

” “What made that happen?”

He looked into his glass. “I was in a good mood, I sold, I bought, and lo and behold, the market rose.”

“Goodness, what power you wield. Can you do something about world peace? Or, better still, the price of couture?”

He shook his head. “Those things are beyond me. But you don’t need to worry about the price of couture. You got wealthier today by about three million dollars.”

Charlotte paused, about to sip her brandy. “Really? I didn’t even feel as if I was working.”

“You weren’t. I didn’t even have anything to do with it. Your mother set up a fund for you before she died that I can’t even touch. But today it did well, all on its ownsome.”

“Huh, who knew?”

“Colloquialisms, Charlotte? I didn’t send you to Paris to forget to speak English. I sent you there to learn French.”

She ignored him. “What else? Are you seeing anyone?”

He frowned, hard and quick. “No, of course not.”

She frowned back at him, mockingly. “Why not? You’re not too old.”

“I should damn well think not.”

“And you’re still very good-looking.”

“You’re biased.”

“Maybe.” But it was true. Jacob was still handsome. Tall, healthy and fit, superbly dressed, and one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. He’d been featured on the covers of Time and BusinessWeek and in the party pages of Vanity Fair. He attended functions with a variety of actresses and models, some as young as his daughter, but that wasn’t what Charlotte meant. He knew what she meant.

Sighing, he looked her in the eye. “Charlotte, when you are older, you will understand. I believe there are only one or two people in the world with whom one can have a true connection. When you’ve been fortunate enough to find and marry one of those people, you are reluctant to settle for less. One can have lovers, those are easily found, but true love rarely strikes twice.”

Charlotte snorted. “God, Dad, you sound like a Hallmark ad. Why don’t you try going out with women who are closer in age to you than they are to me? Someone you’ll have stuff in common with?”

Jacob stood. “Lord, child, you used ‘stuff’ in a sentence and then ended it with a preposition. I can’t continue this conversation.” But he was smiling.

Charlotte put down her glass and reached for his hand. Jacob pulled her up, held her in the curve of his arm, and started to dance.

She grinned up at him as they moved slowly into the hall, dancing gravely.

“The lovely girl … the lovely day … ”

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Jacob dipping Charlotte low as they finished the song together. Then he pushed her toward the stairs.

“Go to bed, little one. Get your beauty sleep, not that you need to be any prettier, Lord knows.”

He watched until she was out of sight, then closed his eyes, trying to hold the image. Decisively, he turned and headed back to the study. It was morning in Tokyo, and there really is no rest for the wicked.

Chapter FIVE

Jacob was long gone when Charlotte came down to breakfast the next day. Sipping her latte, she wandered around the apartment.

“Looking for me, Charlotte?” Greta surprised her. She’d caught Charlotte watching the young man she’d seen the day before, who was deliciously bent over, repairing something in the kitchen. “Admiring my new appliances?”

“Is that what you call him?” Charlotte kept her voice low, but Greta raised hers.

“Watch out, Andy, the mistress of the house is after you.”

He straightened, turning around to regard his audience. Broad grin. White teeth. Dark skin.

“You know my heart belongs to you, Greta.”

“I know, but she’s new in town.”

Charlotte protested. “I’m not really new, I’m just back again.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you missed the memo. Young and pretty is out, older and wiser is in.” He grinned at Greta and turned back to work.

Greta walked out, crooking her finger at Charlotte as she did so. They went into the conservatory, with its curving glass walls overlooking Central Park. It was winter still, and the warmth of the room and the tangle of exotic plants felt surreal against the background of ashen trees below.

“Now, listen here, Charlotte.” Greta had been with the Williams family since before Charlotte was born, and she had become another mother to Charlotte after her own had died. “You keep your hands off Andy. He’s a man, like any other, and likely to get his head turned by you, but he’s happily married, with two small children, and you have no interest in any of that. Leave him alone.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “I have no idea what you mean, Greta.”

The older woman snorted. “Please. I’ve seen the kind of trouble you can cause. Burning down a building was comparatively civilized for you.”

Charlotte was offended. “Greta, you’re exaggerating.”

“I am not. We went through three pool boys at the summer house one year. And you were only seventeen, so Lord alone knows what you could do now that you have more experience.”

Charlotte giggled. “Yes, that was a great summer.”

Greta looked firm. “For you, it was fun; for them, it was a disaster. Some people need to work, you know.”

Charlotte was unbowed. “Look, Greta, I didn’t make them do anything they didn’t want to do. They weren’t much older than I was. We were just having fun.”

“Hmm. Well, my point is that you’re not seventeen anymore, and people like Andy have responsibilities beyond protecting rich young women from sunburn and over-chlorinated swimming pools.”

Charlotte put up her hand. “OK, Greta, I get it. I hear you. No messing with Andy. You have my word.”

“That and a MetroCard will get me anywhere. Promise?” “I promise.”

Greta looked at her for a moment. “Are you looking forward to going back to Yale in the fall?”

Charlotte thought about it. “No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t find the studies very interesting, and because people are going to remember the whole stupid building thing. I wish I’d gone to Juilliard instead.”

“To study singing?”

The younger woman nodded. “I don’t think I would make the same decision now.”

Several years earlier, at the ludicrously expensive private school Charlotte had attended, the college counselors had been discouraging about Charlotte’s chances of a musical career. “The kids who go to Juilliard are going to be professional musicians,” they’d said. “You don’t have a classically trained voice. You’ve been gaining a traditional education. If you wanted to be a musician, you should have gone to a music school. No, Miss Williams, you should consider your voice a wonderful gift from God, something lovely to share with your future husband and children. Have you considered medicine? Or the law? A law degree could offer you freedom to follow multiple careers. Yale is an excellent school. Think about Yale.”

Embarrassed, Charlotte had shut down, taken the information about Yale, filled out the paperwork, and let the school handle the whole thing. Unsurprisingly, Yale had accepted her sight unseen, the historical relationship between the two schools as strong and preferential as ever.

“Have you been to see Janet yet?”

Charlotte smiled. “I’m going later this morning. We’re going to do a lesson and then have lunch.”

Janet was Charlotte’s voice coach and one of the limited number of people Charlotte felt truly comfortable with. You wouldn’t think to look at Janet, in her Stevie Nicks handkerchief hemlines and general love of the witchy look, her long gray hair defiantly undyed and untamed, that she was one of the leading music teachers on the East Coast, but she was. She guided many members of the Philharmonic, frequently held master classes for members of the Metropolitan, and taught the talented children of the wealthy. Charlotte loved her.

“In fact, I’d better go get dressed right now.” She turned back at the door. “I think there’s a leak in my shower. Do you think Andy could come and take a look?”

Greta opened her mouth to chastise her but then realized she was teasing. Charlotte headed upstairs, still giggling.

Greta sat for a while, thinking. She wasn’t sure what was going to become of Charlotte, to be honest. She had so much—looks, money, opportunity. But to Greta, Charlotte would always be the sobbing seven-year-old, calling for Mommy in the night, her father too anguished to hear. A few weeks after Jackie had been killed, a nanny had arrived, found by Greta, and Miss Millie and Greta had raised the girl between them. Jacob was a doting father, but he spent all his time at work. And something had changed in him when Jackie had died. Greta saw it; so did Davis. Miss Millie had been a wonderful nanny, though, very loving and firm, and Charlotte had recovered and eventually started to flourish. Seven years of relative peace had passed, but then one of Millie’s own children had needed her back in Louisiana, and she’d had to leave. Charlotte hadn’t ever really gotten over the loss, and Greta missed her colleague and friend, too. Early in Charlotte’s teen years, things had started to go badly, with boys and God knows what else. It was hardly surprising; there was no one there to set an example, although Greta had done what she could. Now Charlotte was a young woman, and there wasn’t much Greta could do to protect her anymore.

In fact, there wasn’t anything anyone could do.

Chapter SIX

Leaving the triplex an hour or so later, Charlotte decided to walk across the park instead of making Davis get out the car.

“Are you sure, Miss?” Davis looked concerned. “The park?

Alone?”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Davis. It’s Central Park in broad daylight, not Tompkins Square at two a.m. I’ve been taking care of myself in Paris for the last year. I even took the Metro alone, with only a fresh baguette to protect me.”

Davis wasn’t known for his lightheartedness. He went pale. “Your father wouldn’t like it, Miss. It won’t take me a minute to pull the car around.”

She shook her head, pressing the elevator button. “No, Davis. I’ll call you if I need a ride back from Janet’s, OK?” She knew she was making him anxious, but that wasn’t really her problem. Her dad could take care of himself, and so could she.

After the warmth of the apartment, the chill of the park was a shock. She greeted the doorman and pulled her Ungaro cashmere coat tightly around her. She’d forgotten how cold the city could get, especially once you stepped out of the protective canyons of the avenues. Joggers wearing earmuffs and gloves passed her, their breath clouding, their eyes focused, the tinny buzz of their iPods like passing insects. Charlotte had never enjoyed running—she was more of a yoga and Pilates girl, although mostly, she was a “naturally skinny and likes a big salad” kind of girl.

She found herself thinking about her mother. She wished she remembered more, but her memories consisted of brief scenes, scents, her mother bending down to kiss her good night when she and her father were going out, the smell of Chanel No. 5 and finely milled face powder. Clearly, Jackie had loved her, and she’d taken her everywhere. One of Charlotte’s favorite pictures was of herself as a toddler, backstage at some runway show, covered in makeup and surrounded by topless models, all of whom were smiling down at her like soft-hearted, long-lashed giraffes. She was grinning back, toothless and happy, and at the side of the frame sat Jackie, getting her hair done, her glance proud. In Paris during the last year, she’d been greeted as a prodigal child, welcomed to all the fashion houses, embraced and clucked over by designers whose names were permanently etched on the pages of Vogue. Stories of her mother were told with great affection, and photos were brought out that made Charlotte catch her breath. Many of them were pictures of her as a baby with Jackie. Some were of Jackie pregnant, candid shots of her helping other models get ready for shows she was too spherical to work. And in some, she could see her father, relaxed, smoking his cigars, watching his beautiful wife with hot eyes and a warm smile.

More than one designer told Charlotte she should be a model, but the aging models who’d held her at those long-ago runway shows shook their heads at the idea. “No,” they’d said firmly. Finish college first. Get an education. Your mother would have insisted, and she would have been right.” One woman, Nadia, who’d parlayed a successful modeling career into an even more successful career as a booker, said she wouldn’t even represent her if she asked.

“Non, non, non. Your mother was my dear friend, and she would curse me from her grave if I even suggested such a thing. Modeling is a cruel business, ma chérie, and she would keep you from it. She had fun, because she loved clothes and designers and other models, but it isn’t the way it used to be. It is a big business now, and there is too much money at stake for friendships to be worth very much.” She’d made a very French noise of disgust. “And besides, the models these days are all children, girls who didn’t even get their periods yet, girls who should be climbing trees and kissing boys and running away.” She had turned to look out at Paris and sighed. “If Jackie were here, she would be fat and happy, and you would have a dozen brothers and sisters, chou chou.”

Now, walking through the park her mother had also loved, Charlotte thought about this. Her memories of Jackie couldn’t be trusted, they were melded with the information she’d gathered from the press, from books, from documentaries. There was one about the fashion of the ‘80s that had an interview with her mother, and she must have watched it a hundred times. It was long before she was born, and Jackie only talked about one particular designer, but Charlotte could recite every word, anticipate every head movement, every smile.

She kicked along through the leaves on the bridle track, wondering if her mother really would have wanted more children. She’d wished for a sister all her life, and when she was little, she’d hoped her daddy would remarry, maybe even someone who already had children, maybe several children. The big apartment was lonely and too quiet. Once she was older, she had turned her attention to friends from school whose families she could temporarily join. But those families were almost as cold as hers, sometimes worse. Sisters and brothers rarely played together, shuttled from one after-school activity to another by one nanny or another. Parents worked or shopped or spent time with the needy poor or the neurotic rich, and hanging out with the children was something you paid other children’s mothers to do. It was no wonder she and her teenage friends were such a tight bunch; they just needed someone to play with.

From thinking of her mother, her mind turned naturally to Miss Millie, who had stepped in shortly after her mother died. Dark-skinned, fine-featured, sharp-tongued, Millie Pearl had been an incredibly important part of Charlotte’s life. Whenever she stopped short of doing the truly stupid thing, when she refused that hard drug, when she didn’t get into the car full of drunken frat boys—that was Millie’s influence. She’d taught the young woman to value what was inside, to think for herself, to judge people by what they did, not what they wore. And she’d loved the girl deeply, hugging her frequently, brushing her long hair every night, and singing to her, making her feel special and safe and surrounded by a warm structure that supported her growth like a trellis in a garden. Charlotte had missed her very much when she left and had been desolate and depressed for several weeks. Then she’d sadly reached the conclusion that people you love were prone to suddenly leaving, and she’d polished herself a hard, shiny shell and kept it on from that time forward.

She was about halfway through the park, past the reservoir, when a young man approached her. He had something in his hand, and she instinctively took a step back in case it was a weapon. It wasn’t. It was a pad and pen.

“I’m sorry, aren’t you Charlotte Williams?”

She nodded, slowed a little. Maybe she knew him?

“I’m Dan Robinson from the New York Sentinel. I was wondering if you had a statement to make?”

She was confused and immediately on her guard. There were a lot of crazy people in the city, and then there were reporters. One had to be careful. Her dad didn’t trust the press, and neither did she.

“A statement about what?” She started walking again, quicker this time.

“About your father’s arrest.” The reporter’s eyes were bright, and he could tell he had surprised her. Her step faltered.

“I think you must be confusing me with someone else. My father is at work.”

“He was at work. Now he is under arrest for embezzlement.”

Charlotte felt and heard her phone ringing in her bag. She pulled it out. It was home. Then another call came in, from Emily. She answered the first one.

Greta’s voice sounded shaken. “Charlotte, where are you?”

“I’m on my way to Janet’s. Greta, there’s a reporter here who says Daddy has been arrested. What’s going on?”

“Come home, Charlotte. Or go to Janet’s if you’re closer. Davis will come and pick you up.”

Charlotte looked up at the skyline. She could see the Dakota.

“I’m closer to Janet’s. Tell Davis I’ll be there in ten minutes. Is it true?”

Greta sounded like she was in tears. “Yes, Charlotte, but we don’t know anything yet.” There was a pause. “Please hurry, Charlotte.”

She hung up. Emily had long ago gone to voice mail, and as she looked, she saw text after text coming in, voice mails piling up, phone calls on top of phone calls. She looked up. The reporter was still there, a tape recorder in his hand now, stretched out to catch her comments, her first thoughts on whatever it was that was happening. She drew a breath.

“Miss Williams? Do you have a comment? Your father is accused of perpetrating a massive fraud, embezzling millions, possibly billions, of dollars. The SEC claims to have been following him for years. What do you have to say?”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him and stood tall. “I have absolutely no doubt that my father is completely innocent and that his name will soon be cleared.”

“It’s your name, too, Charlotte.” The reporter was very still, hoping she would say something that would make his editor proud.

But instead, she said something that would have made Miss Millie proud. “A name is just a label, Mr. Robinson. It doesn’t tell you anything about someone’s character.”

And then she turned on her heel and walked away.

Chapter SEVEN

Janet opened the door, smiling, her arms open wide. She had her hair piled on top of her head, antique chopsticks holding it up, rhinestone cat-eye spectacles glinting. She really was one of a kind.

“It is so wonderful to see you, Charlotte. Give me a hug, for goodness sake. I want to hear all about Paris.” Then the elderly woman paused, looking at her young friend more carefully. “What has happened? Are you all right?”

Charlotte pushed gently past her and went into the kitchen, where she knew there was a TV. “Can I put on the TV, Jan? Something bad has happened to Dad.”

Janet gasped and rushed after her, finding the remote underneath a fluffy gray cat and switching on the TV. The cat was annoyed and stalked off, tail twitching.

“Calm down, Brutus, you weren’t watching anyway.”

Janet McTavish was, as her name suggested, originally from Scotland, but four decades in the United States had softened her accent considerably. She and her favorite pupil stood and waited for CNN to tell them what they needed to know. And then, suddenly, there was a photo of Jacob Williams, and the announcer was talking.

“Today, Wall Street was thrown into disarray when one of its giants, Jacob Williams, was arrested for securities fraud. Spokesmen for the SEC and the FBI issued the following statement.”

The video cut to a press conference, where a man who didn’t look very threatening was talking about Charlotte’s father as if he were a criminal.

“For more than five years, the SEC and the FBI, working together, have been building a case against Mr. Williams, who has held the confidence of some of our country’s leaders, many of our major banks, and thousands of individual investors. At times, we didn’t think we would ever gather the evidence we needed, so complicated was his web of transactions and funds, but now we are confident that we have a watertight case against him. He is being held without bail in Manhattan, and a preliminary arraignment is scheduled for the morning.”

Janet took Charlotte’s arm and guided her to a chair, displacing poor Brutus again, who simply left the room in disgust.

“Goodness, child, you’re as white as a sheet. Let’s get you some whiskey.”

Charlotte silently shook her head.

“A cup of tea, then?”

Another shake.

Janet snapped her fingers in Charlotte’s face. “Charlotte, wake up.” Charlotte jumped. “Your father is innocent, and there has been some mistake. You need to pull yourself together so you can help him.”

There was a knock at the door, and suddenly, Davis was there. “Miss Charlotte? Are you ready to come home?” He coughed, which was about as distressed as Davis ever got. “I’m afraid there are journalists and photographers at the building. We will be unable to avoid them.”

Charlotte shook herself. She was young, but she was tough. She turned to Janet. “I will take that whiskey, thanks. Davis?”

“I’m driving, Miss.”

“Of course.” She thought for a moment. “Did you already contact Mr. Bedford?” Mr. Bedford was her father’s lawyer.

“He was the one who alerted us first, Miss. He is with your father downtown.”

“What about Marshall?” Michael Marshall was her father’s partner. He’d been with Jacob a while, although he played a less public role than her father did.

Davis looked pained. “I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Marshall.”

“Maybe he’s also been arrested?”

Davis shrugged, something she’d never seen him do before. For some reason, that small gesture of hopelessness on his part worried her deeply.

Charlotte looked around Janet’s kitchen, cluttered and small yet as beloved to her as the stately kitchen in her own apartment. She’d had many of her happiest times in this place, singing with Janet, learning what her voice could do. She guessed those times were over for a while. If not forever.

“I’m sorry, Janet. I guess I need to go home.”

Janet gave her a quick hug. “Oh, for goodness sake, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. I’m sure it’s all an error somewhere or just someone jealous over some money. It usually is. You’ll be back to see me next week, I expect, and we shall laugh about it.”

Charlotte got up and walked through the living room to reach the door. The faded sofa, the enormous Steinway grand that dominated the room, the rich ruby and blue of the Oriental carpet, all precious sights she’d missed in Paris. She felt as if she were sleepwalking. Brutus regarded her balefully from the top of the piano, but his sister, Cleopatra, purred at Charlotte’s feet. She bent to stroke the soft black fur, and it was as if someone else’s hand was doing it. Somehow, the gentle purring of the cat reminded her that the world wasn’t over; there was just a problem to be dealt with, and it would all be all right. The cat looked up and slowly blinked her big amber eyes affectionately. Charlotte straightened and turned to Davis, feeling the blood returning to her fingers and toes, her mind clearing.

“OK, Davis, let’s go face the hordes. The apartment first and then downtown.”

Davis smiled briefly, relieved to see that she was taking charge. “Yes, Miss.”

But when they got home, they found downtown already waiting for them.

CHARLOTTE STAYED VERY calm as she pushed through the photographers and reporters at her building entrance and paused in the lobby to talk to the building manager. Jacob Williams was not the first resident to provoke media interest, and the manager was sanguine.

“Miss Williams, rest assured that no member of the press will be allowed into the building without your prior permission and that no photographers whatsoever will be given access. You’ve known Davy and Felipe since you were a child; you know their discretion can be relied upon.”

Charlotte did know. The two doormen had seen many a drunken return to the apartment and had never so much as made a peep, not to her and certainly not to her father. Their discretion wasn’t because of the Christmas bonuses each resident gave them, either; it was pride and honor. Or it could be a total lack of interest in the goings on of their spoiled tenants, but she preferred to think it was honor.

She smiled at the building manager. “I know, Mr. Rockwell. I am very grateful to all the staff. We will, of course, cover any additional expenses you incur … “ She let her voice trail off politely, but her message was clear. Spare no expense. Keep them out.

Mr. Rockwell nodded. “This is your home, Miss Williams. You will be secure here, and when Mr. Williams returns, we will all be glad to see his reputation restored.”

All of this made Charlotte feel much better, at least until the elevator opened onto the triplex foyer and Greta was waiting for her.

“There are gentlemen in the library, Miss. They wanted to enter your father’s study, but I locked the door and told them they had to wait for you.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and tried to fight down her rising sense of panic. “OK. Please tell them I have returned and will be with them shortly. Have you offered them coffee?”

Greta looked scandalized. “No. They are the police. They think your father is a criminal.”

“All the more reason to treat them with civility, don’t you think?” Charlotte headed up to her room. “Please serve them coffee.” She paused. “On the Sèvres china, please.”

Charlotte walked into her room, closing the double doors behind her with a click. Leaning back, she waited until her head cleared. What. The. Fuck. When she’d burned that building down at Yale, her dad had sent a lawyer to meet her at the police station, and he hadn’t been far behind himself. Every time she’d gotten into trouble in her teens, Davis had shown up, whisking her away. She had never, ever had to face anything difficult alone, or at least not for very long. She felt totally lost and terrified, but she knew she had to pull herself together. She looked around her room and realized that everything she needed was right there. “If you walk into a nest of vipers,” her father had told her, “walk in looking like a million bucks. It’ll confuse the snakes.” A Chanel suit seemed like appropriate armor, with gorgeous shoes for a little “fuck you.” Full makeup but not slutty. Smooth, tight hair in a diamond clip. Everything very under control. Yes, she was a twenty-two-year-old girl, but she was going to act as if she dealt with the authorities every day of her life. Secretly, she wanted her mommy, but dressing up in Mommy’s clothes was the best she could do. It was small comfort, but it was comfort.

As she came down the stairs her knees were trembling, and at one point she stumbled, grabbing the banister for support. She saw Greta waiting below, her face drawn. Charlotte straightened, swallowing her own fear in the hope that she would alleviate Greta’s. Like a swan, she told herself. Calm and serene above the water, paddling like mad underneath.

She made it down the rest of the stairs without falling.

WHEN CHARLOTTE ENTERED the library, she looked like the cover of a magazine, and all three men in the room instinctively got to their feet. The dark suit made her hair glow, and her smooth skin and unusual features were stunning.

“Gentlemen.” Charlotte extended her hand. “I’m Charlotte Williams. I understand there has been some mistake about my father.”

The first man, who was short and somewhat round, introduced himself.

“Miss Williams, I’m Philip Mallory, NYPD. I’m acting as the liaison between the NYPD and the two other agencies involved in the investigation.” His tone was bland, calm. He could probably see her hand was shaking, but he just seemed to file that away.

“The SEC and the FBI?” Charlotte was equally cool. “I assume you gentlemen represent one each?” She smiled, getting them to smile back at her, unable to stop themselves. OK, Charlotte, they’re just men, she told herself, just men. Men love you.

“I’m Jim Scarsford from the SEC.” Taller than the cop, handsomer, and dressed in what Charlotte immediately saw was an Armani suit. She guessed you had to dress like a banker to catch a banker. She smiled briefly at Scarsford and turned to the last man.

“Sam Dale, FBI.” He could have come from anywhere, been anything. Sandy hair, pale eyes, small mouth. His extreme normalness was probably an advantage in his work. Your eye would just slide right over him. His suit was Men’s Warehouse, all the way.

“Can any of you gentlemen tell me where my father is?”

Scarsford cleared his throat. It was unfortunate for him, but the SEC agent found Charlotte attractive and appeared to be struggling a bit to remain focused on the fact that she was a subject in an investigation. “Uh, yes, Miss Williams. Your father is being held at an FBI facility downtown. He is safe, of course.”

“Of course. Why FBI, may I ask? Is he being charged with a federal offense?” Charlotte was impressed with how calm she sounded. She didn’t feel it, but she sounded it. All those deportment lessons finally paying off.

Mr. Dale answered. “Yes, he is. Securities fraud is a crime with far-reaching implications and victims in multiple states. In fact, your father is accused of defrauding investors from more than fourteen different countries.”

Charlotte smiled again, although she feared she might throw up at any minute. “Really? That sounds very energetic of him.” She paused, crossing her legs and settling herself more comfortably, the red soles of her shoes seeming to distract them. Jim Scars-ford started to go scarlet, the color climbing his neck. “My father’s lawyer has been present throughout, I assume?”

The FBI agent nodded. “Yes. Your father hasn’t actually answered any questions or spoken to agents from any of the agencies involved yet, although we hope he will. If he wishes to prove his innocence, he’s going to need to talk to us.”

Charlotte’s expression remained calm. “I imagine he’ll do whatever he deems most sensible.” She stood. “Now, gentlemen, I assume you need something from me, or you wouldn’t be here. How can I help you?”

The cop pulled out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search your father’s study. The warrant allows us to remove his computers, his files, and any other materials we consider pertinent to our investigation.”

Charlotte took the piece of paper and folded it without looking. “I’ll need to consult with my attorney, of course. Will you gentlemen excuse me while I call him?”

Once outside the door, Charlotte ran for the bathroom and made it just in time. Resting her clammy forehead on the sink, she unfolded the paper and looked at it. It was, as they had said, a search warrant for her dad’s study. It was signed by a judge she knew, one who’d eaten in their home several times. Traitor. It was probably only a matter of time before they searched the whole place. Her room. Her closet. She retched again and waited there a while until she felt composed.

Wiping her mouth, she looked at herself in the mirror. A little pale. She pinched her cheeks and opened her eyes wide. Pull yourself together, Charlotte. She entered her father’s study and called the lawyer.

“Arthur?” The line wasn’t very good, and it sounded as if he wasn’t alone.

“Charlotte? Are you at the apartment?”

“There are police here, Arthur, with a warrant for Dad’s study.”

The lawyer sighed. She’d known Arthur Bedford all her life, and she’d never heard him sound stressed before. “Your father has been accused of some very serious crimes, Charlotte, and the FBI and the SEC are totally within their rights to search the apartment.”

Charlotte looked out the window. Everyone was carrying on as normal. Tourists were climbing into horse-drawn carriages. Children were playing. Did no one realize the world had ended?

“The warrant only covers the study. I’m in it right now. No smoking guns. No piles of cash.”

Arthur had lost his sense of humor. “Don’t touch anything, Charlotte. Don’t take anything out.”

She frowned. “Why would I, Arthur? The sooner they clear this all up, the sooner we can sue them for defamation of character.”

Another sigh. This was beginning to make her feel anxious.

“Dad is innocent, right, Arthur?”

“Charlotte, I wish I knew.” She heard the sound of louder voices. “Let’s talk in an hour or so, OK?”

She stood there a moment, lightly touching the things on her father’s desk. His laptop was there. A detachable flash drive. Keys to his files. Nothing was hidden, no secrets there. Fine. Let them come.

She collected the key to her father’s study from Greta and went back into the library. She decided to address Dale, the FBI agent.

“My lawyer advises me that my father wants to see me. Will that be allowed?”

Surprisingly, Dale turned to Scarsford.

Charlotte raised one eyebrow. “I thought the FBI was holding my father?”

Scarsford looked annoyed at Dale, briefly. “They are, but the SEC began the investigation. I’m the lead investigator.”

Charlotte started to feel the tiniest flicker of anger, deep within her fear. “Gentlemen, let me be crystal-clear. You think my father is guilty of something. You think he is a criminal. But I assume your suspicions don’t extend to me?”

A short pause, each waiting for the other to catch the ball.

“Or do they?”

The cop caught it. “Not at this time, Miss Williams. The investigation is just beginning.”

“I thought your case was watertight? That’s what you’ve told the media. You’ve hung my father before you’ve even begun? That’s not very sporting of you, is it?”

She walked to the window and looked out for a moment, composing herself and pulling together every ounce of inner strength she possessed. She wanted her father to walk through the door, laughing, telling everyone what a good joke this had been. But when she turned back to the investigators, she looked as if she were serving tea rather than an ultimatum.

“If at any time during this investigation I feel I am not being treated with the utmost respect or that I am being deliberately misled in any way, I will cause problems for each and every one of you that will make you wish you had not been born. My father and my family are connected at the highest levels of government, of society, and internationally. Please remember that you have been welcomed into my home and treated with civility. Do me the courtesy of extending the same civility.”

She took a deep breath.

“Now, will whoever’s in charge please answer my simple question: May I see my father?”

Scarsford smiled. “Of course, Charlotte.” “Miss Williams.”

The smile didn’t wobble. “Miss Williams, sorry. Once our people have begun to search your father’s study, I will take you to him myself.”

“Very well.” She extended the key to him. “Here is what you need. Nothing has been disturbed or removed since my father left for work this morning. We have nothing to hide.” She looked Scarsford in the eye. “Can you say the same, Mr. Scarsford?”

He flushed.

Chapter EIGHT

It was actually an hour before they could leave the apartment, and during that time, Charlotte was able to talk to Emily on the phone. Emily seemed more amused than anything.

“It’s just ridiculous, Charlotte! There are photos of your dad on CNN, for crying out loud. And not very flattering ones, either.”

Charlotte made a face. “That’s hardly a problem right now, Emily. When this is all cleared up, I’ll make sure to update their file photo, OK?”

Emily was unchastened. “Well, he looks heavy, is all I’m saying.” She giggled. “Maybe he’ll be like Martha Stewart and get in shape in jail.”

“Emily.” Charlotte’s tone was sharp. “Don’t even joke about it. It’s not funny.”

She could hear her friend pouting. “It is a little bit funny, Charlotte. It’s silly. Why on earth would your dad steal money when he’s so wealthy? The po-po are so stupid.”

Charlotte happened to be looking at Detective Mallory as Emily said this, and she thought she’d rarely seen a man who looked less stupid, but there you go.

“Shall I come and visit you?” Emily sounded giddy. “I can wear dark glasses and cover my head with a shawl and creep in.”

“Don’t you dare, Emily. Stay away so you don’t get dragged in the mud, too. Besides, I’m going to see Dad soon, so I won’t be here much longer.”

“OK, Charlotte. I’ll call you later, OK?” Emily hung up, presumably to call all of her other friends and revel in schadenfreude.

Charlotte was getting a pretty good handle on her anger now, and she found herself irritated by her friend’s lighthearted response to her crisis. Not once had Emily said she was sympathetic or said that she felt bad that Charlotte was going through this or offered to do anything concretely helpful. Oh well. To be fair, she wasn’t sure what she would do if the situation were reversed. She smiled at the thought of Emily’s parents getting in trouble. For what? Shoplifting at Zabar’s? Buying non-fair-trade coffee?

Jim Scarsford, watching her from across the room, saw a brief smile soften her features for a moment, then fade away. Mallory came over and spoke to him.

“We’re good here. You can take her downtown now, if you want. Or keep her waiting some more. It’s up to you. Sometimes if they get worked up enough, they make a mistake, you know, blurt something out in frustration that they wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Scarsford frowned at his NYPD counterpart. “I doubt she knows anything. She’s been away in Paris for the last year, and before that, she didn’t seem interested in anything but boys and clothes. I doubt Charlotte Williams is a criminal mastermind.”

Mallory looked less sure. “She would have been arrested for arson if she’d been anyone else, you know that. Yale hushed it all up because Daddy stepped in and threw money at the problem. If she’d been an eighteen-year-old black kid from New Haven, she’d be in jail still, and where’s the fairness in that?”

All three men had been watching the Williams family for quite some time. Charlotte surely would have been embarrassed if she knew how much both of these men knew about her life. Including her love life.

She stood as Scarsford approached her. It was a pity he was the devil—he was actually nice looking. “Can we go now?”

When she stood close to him, he realized she wasn’t as tall as he’d first thought. He’d been seeing pictures of her day after day for the last several years, and he’d been prepared for her prettiness. What he hadn’t been ready for was the intoxicating mix of reserve and heat she gave out. Very controlled, very elegant, very stylish. But she moved like a cat, and her face was so expressive. He wished for a moment he could take her to bed, really find out what made her smile, what made her eyes close in delight, what made her curl up inside. But that was never going to happen, because he was going to put her father in jail, and that tended to be a dating no-no. Smiling wryly at himself on the inside, he maintained his cool and simply nodded.

ONE OF THE things an expensive Upper East Side education gave you, supposedly, was the ability to make polite conversation with anyone. You might run into a diplomat one day and a king of some small country the next, and a properly educated young woman should easily be able to discuss a variety of neutral topics. But it turned out that riding downtown in a car with a man responsible for arresting your parent was a tough situation to chat your way through.

“Music?” As soon as he said it, he kicked himself.

Charlotte simply turned and looked at him, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “What would you suggest? ‘Folsom Prison Blues'? ‘Jailhouse Rock'?”

Silence. He’d graduated first from his class at Columbia Law, slaved as a junior associate at a white-shoe firm, learning the ins and outs of securities litigation, and joined the SEC determined to bring big business and fat cats to task for cheating the common man. Instead, he’d spent most of the previous half-decade watching rich people get richer while getting away with crimes poorer people would have rotted in jail for. He wanted to feel nothing for Charlotte Williams and her ilk, the protected offspring of the wealthy. But she was hot and smart and apparently had a sense of humor even now.

“Sorry, you’re right. Not appropriate.”

More silence. They were crawling down Fifth, and he cut across the park, joining traffic that was moving a little faster. She gazed out, seeing familiar buildings sliding by, filled with people who presumably had worries of their own. Piles of stubborn black snow clung to the corners here and there. Sometimes the puddles in the intersections got so deep they’d go over her boots when she and Daddy were walking to the park, jumping and squealing, even though he’d gotten her the boots with the string at the top, even though his strong arms held her up when she jumped, even though.

Scarsford looked over. She was looking out the window, her profile still. He’d seen many people in trouble, and some weeks, those were the only people he talked to. Usually, they were chatty, trying to win you over, trying to make things easier by making a connection, hoping you would overlook whatever the hell it was they’d done. Not this one, not this girl. She couldn’t care less about him. She was probably thinking about what to wear to dinner.

Sometimes they’d go to ride Charlotte’s pony, and he would walk alongside her, talking about the trees and the birds, making up stories about what the pony was thinking, about how he dreamed of her all week, waiting for her to come and ride him, and his head would be level with hers almost, because the pony was very small and he was very tall, Daddy was.

She sighed. Scarsford sneaked a look again, nearly rear-ending a cab. The sudden stop made her jump, disturbing whatever shopping spree she was dreaming of. Charlotte turned to him, her eyes full of tears. She looked at him for a long moment, her face the prettiest and saddest thing he’d ever seen, and then the traffic moved again, and so did they, and he lost her to her dreams once more.

Then they were there.

THE METAL DETECTOR was interesting. Scarsford went first, pulling a gun from inside his jacket (Charlotte had been surprised to see it, short and ugly and lying like a toy in the plastic tray), then a wallet, a watch, a class ring.

Then it was her turn. She removed her watch (IWC), a tennis bracelet (Tiffany’s, a present from her dad), a ring (emerald, vintage, Alexander’s), and a collar pin (also emerald, vintage, Alexander’s, of course). All told, it represented more than the annual salary of the woman working the metal detector, but she couldn’t have cared less. She’d worked there for nearly two decades, and honey, she’d seen it all.

“Shoes?” Charlotte looked at Scarsford, but he shook his head.

“Not here.”

“Jacket?”

This time, he nodded. She slipped it off, revealing a simple lawn chemise, sleeveless, utterly see-through, La Perla underwear clearly visible. She stepped over the metal threshold, but it beeped. She frowned, stepped back, tried again. Another beep.

Scarsford was waiting on the other side as the woman stepped forward with the wand, and he let himself follow its path up and down her slender body. Clean all the way down, clean all the way up, but then it beeped at her head. She had been frowning, slightly embarrassed to be holding up the line to be scrutinized by strangers, but now her face cleared.

“My clip.”

She reached up to the back of her neck, pulling the transparent cotton tight across her breasts for an instant, making Scarsford start to get hard, despite his best efforts to think of the tax code. He was lost a second later, though, when her long hair tumbled down, just reaching her breasts, the diamond clip dropping into another tray, and then she was next to him, no beep, just the scent of her hair as she moved past him, the soft curve of her shoulder close enough to touch. What the hell was wrong with him?

She was struggling with her watch, and he stepped forward to help, aching to touch her smooth skin.

“No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

Her cool voice made him feel twelve again, and he stepped back.

She fastened the watch, the jewelry, the pin. Then she turned her back on him and twisted her hair, her long, thin fingers gathering it into a knot, revealing the soft nape of her neck. A click. She turned again, once more covered and under control.

“Shall we go?”

Scarsford just nodded, not trusting his voice, and headed to the elevators.

After taking a deep breath, she followed.

Chapter NINE

Jacob looked at his daughter across the table, a cold cup of coffee the only thing on its chipped Formica surface.

“You look lovely, Charlotte.”

It had been his first thought when she walked in. Sun filtered down a mine shaft, illuminating what seemed like impenetrable darkness only seconds before. It had been a gray blur, the men in nice suits taking him from his office, the ashen face of his secretary, the ink on his fingertips. It was a nightmare, but now Charlotte was there, and he would hold on to that.

“You look like your mother.”

She sat and reached for his hands, so cold. “Have you eaten anything?”

He shook his head.

Charlotte looked around the room. Cinder-block walls with no paint. Painted cement floors, like an old school. Mysterious dark spots on the walls suggested blood and violence. Under it all, a smell of fear and confined sweat. Suppressing an urge to run as far away as possible, she stood again and went to the wide mirror on one wall.

Raising her voice, she spoke to her own reflection. “Scarsford, I’ve watched Law and Order. I know you’re in there. If you don’t bring him some food immediately, I am leaving. He’s an old man. He has a medical condition. If I have to call for a doctor, you can be sure the press will hear of it.”

She sat back down and smiled tightly at her dad. She had been shocked to see him when she walked in, and the lost look on his face had frozen her own fear in place, forced her to pull it together. She was getting quite an education in her own strength today.

“I’m not old. Nor do I have a medical condition.” His quavering voice made it a lie.

“You’re not old, Dad, but you aren’t young, either, and this must be horrible for you. I know it is for me, and Greta and Davis look as if they could fall apart at any minute. And the medical condition? They don’t know that.” Besides, she thought to herself, I might have a coronary any minute, just from the pressure of not losing it completely. But on the outside, she was cool, and among the men watching them through the one-way mirror, only Scarsford had any idea how much pain she was in.

The door opened, and a young man came in, carrying a fresh cup of coffee and some sandwiches. He put them down without a word.

“Eat,” instructed Charlotte. “Then we’ll talk.” She looked away, trying to give him some privacy. She read a poster about her rights that was translated into four languages, none of them giving her the right to take her dad and leave, which was the only one she wanted to exercise.

The first bites of food nearly choked him, but gradually Jacob felt better, some color returning to his face. He drained the coffee cup, tucking it under the older one, neat and tidy.

“What shall we talk about, honey?”

Charlotte paused. For a second, she wondered if he’d lost his mind. His voice was just like normal, but it shouldn’t have been. Everything he’d built, everything he’d worked for, was under threat. Why wasn’t he storming around? Why wasn’t he angry?

“I don’t know, Dad. How about you getting arrested for fraud? Seems current, anyway.”

He frowned at her. “You’re mad at me.”

“No, just confused. Why do they think you did this?”

He shrugged.

“Are they listening to us? Can they hear what we’re saying?” He shrugged again. “I expect so, but I don’t want to talk about it, anyway. I want to talk about your mother.” She paused. “Why?”

“Because we’ve never talked about her, have you noticed?”

Fantastic, thought Charlotte. Years of silence on this pivotal topic, and now all of a sudden, he wants to talk about it, now that we’re sitting in front of a hostile audience. A lump started to form in her throat.

“Dad, I think we need to focus on how to get you out of here, all right? We can talk about Mom later on, at home.”

“There won’t be a later on, honey. They’re never going to let me out. I know the SEC intimately. They don’t tend to act unless they’re sure, because it’s their own hand in the drawer, if you follow me.”

“OK, but they’re wrong, aren’t they?” In the distance, she heard a man yelling, his anger abruptly cut short by a door slamming. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

Jacob sighed. “Did you know your mother had two miscarriages before she had you?”

Tears of frustration sprang to Charlotte’s eyes. “Why are you telling me this now, Dad? We need to get you out of here. Don’t you realize how much trouble you’re in?”

He nodded. “I do. But maybe now that I’m here, I can focus on what’s important, which is telling you about your mother and how much she loved you. We tried for a long time to have children, you know. All she wanted was children, to be a mommy. We planned to have lots and lots of kids and go live on an island far away from this one. You and your brothers and sisters were going to run around barefoot all day, swimming in the ocean, wearing just flowers in your hair. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.”

“Dad—”

“Don’t interrupt, honey. She was pregnant again, finally, when the car accident happened. No one knew but me. We were going to tell everyone that weekend, but she didn’t make it. And the baby was so small there was no chance. Your brother or sister.” He sighed. “All gone.”

Charlotte took a shuddering breath. Clearly, she needed some help here.

Jacob just kept going. “And then Miss Millie came, and she took such good care of you, and Greta, of course, and work just didn’t make any sense anymore. What was the point, without her? I took advantage of something. A loophole. A small thing. I just didn’t care anymore, if they saw me do it. But they didn’t see me, so I did it again. It took on a life of its own, rolled on like a snowball, and years passed before I started to feel anything again. When I did, when I saw that if Jackie were here, she would hate what I had become, it was too late. I was lost.”

Charlotte gazed at him in horror. Was he confessing? “Shh, Dad, never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Let me get Arthur, we can talk when he gets here, OK?”

She suddenly realized that if they were listening to this, which presumably they were, then without Arthur present, they could use it against her father, as evidence. Right? She stood and banged on the mirror.

“Mr. Scarsford, my father would like his lawyer, please.” A pause.

Jacob was still talking, as if she were still sitting across from him. “Your mother just wanted a simple life, Charlotte. She just wanted to be happy and quiet with her children. She would be so proud of you, of what you’ve become.”

“And what’s that, Dad? A spoiled young woman?”

He laughed.

Scarsford came in. “Mr. Bedford is on his way, Miss Williams. The more your father can tell us, the more we can help him.”

Charlotte snorted. “Mr. Scarsford, please.”

Jacob looked up at them. “You’re not spoiled, Charlotte. There’s still time for you to have the life you want to have, that your mother would have wanted you to have. You should leave Manhattan, though. It’s not a very easy place to keep things simple. Things have a way of getting out of hand.”

“Things like what, Mr. Williams? Things like the fund?” Scarsford had moved into the room.

“Don’t answer that, Dad. Mr. Scarsford, please leave the room. I have asked for counsel, and this conversation is over.”

“It seemed like a small thing at the beginning, Charlie. Just a quick thing that didn’t seem to hurt anyone.”

Charlotte was starting to cry, her body shaking uncontrollably. Where was Arthur? “Shh, Daddy, don’t talk now. We’re waiting for Arthur, OK?”

Jacob smiled up at her, just as he always had. “Honey, it’s too late for Arthur. It’s not his fault.” He reached up and stroked

the side of her face. “You look like your mom, did I tell you that?”

Charlotte sobbed. “Yes, Daddy, you told me that.”

And then she took his head in her arms and held him tightly, as he started to sob himself. “It was just a small thing, Jackie, just a small thing. I’m so sorry, Jackie.”

Charlotte held on tight and waited for the lawyer.

Chapter TEN

After that, things got even worse. Jacob had cried for a while and then fallen silent and sullen, refusing to talk even to Charlotte. Arthur had ordered the investigators from the room.

“I think it’s clear your father is in shock, Charlotte. I think we should have him looked at by a doctor.”

Charlotte felt as if she herself could use some medical attention, or at least a Xanax or three, but she pushed it down. “Will it be someone we know or someone they bring?”

Arthur frowned. “I’m not sure.”

In the end, the investigators allowed Jacob’s own doctor to attend him, and once Dr. Levinger was finished, they allowed him to transport Jacob to a hospital for further evaluation.

Mallory was brusque. “Mr. Bedford, if this is your client’s attempt to escape prosecution by feigning illness, then you should advise him that it hasn’t worked for organized crime, and it won’t work for him.”

Arthur was starting to get his confidence back, now that his own shock was receding. He looked down his nose at the policeman. “Good grief, Detective, there’s no need to be rude. Mr. Williams has suffered a great shock, and the doctor merely wishes to ensure that there isn’t anything else going on. If he collapses while in your care, it wouldn’t look very good for you, would it?”

Mallory said nothing for a moment, then, “I’m not sure you realize how angry people are about this. If I let him leave the building unguarded, he might not make it to the sidewalk.”

Charlotte went pale. “What are you talking about? What people?”

“The people whose money he stole, Miss Williams. Did you think it was all faceless corporations and big banks? No, he took the life savings of couples who’d planned to retire, who’d worked all their lives and were finally about to be able to rest. He took the nest eggs of families with children. He took whatever he wanted, Miss Williams, and people tend to look askance at that kind of greed.”

“You’re wrong about him,” Charlotte said, although inside she was feeling less sure. Her father had seemed so happy and normal and confident only the other night. Was it possible that everything she took for granted, everything she thought was certain, was actually a total lie? She’d have broken down if she’d had any tears left.

WHEN THEY LEFT the building, her father in a wheelchair, his doctor at his side, she saw firsthand what Mallory had been talking about.

“There he is, there’s Williams!” A small crowd surged forward, their faces twisted with rage. “You thief!”

Charlotte made eye contact with one woman, a normal-looking woman in her early forties maybe.

“You bitch!” the woman cried. “Your father stole everything I ever worked for. He’s a fucking thief, and I hope he dies in jail, and you, too, you whore!”

Charlotte faltered a little, feeling as if she’d been physically assaulted. As she paused, she felt a hand on her elbow, guiding her, and she managed to keep going. As she passed the woman, she felt wetness on her face—the woman had spat on her. Charlotte stumbled, but the hand on her elbow was strong and kept her going.

“Don’t stop, Charlotte. I’ve got you.” The voice was low in her ear, but she kept going.

Someone threw something at her father, and he ducked his head. It smashed on the ground, a bottle.

Suddenly, the police formed a barrier between their small group and the larger crowd, and they got to the ambulance. As the doors slammed and it pulled away, Charlotte was propelled to another waiting car, and she turned to see who was helping her.

Scarsford. He didn’t let go until she was in the car, and when he did, her arm felt suddenly cold.

Faces pressed up against the window, struggling with the police, fingers pointing, rage, anger, and … loss. She could see sadness and panic on these faces and suddenly realized what her father stood accused of. And she realized in the same moment that he was guilty and that life was never going to be the same again.

THE SCENE WAS similar in front of her apartment building, although there were fewer police to protect her. Scarsford kept his arm around her shoulder, and she ducked her head, but she could still hear the insults and threats people were throwing. Not to mention the photographers.

“Come on, gorgeous, they’re going to love you in jail. Give us a smile.”

“Over here, bitch, over here.” “Look up, Charlotte. Let’s see you.”

They wanted something to put on TV, just as Emily had said, and she was damned if she was going to give it to them.

And then someone said, “I hear you fuck your father for money, Charlie.”

She looked up, enraged and horrified, and a million flash bulbs went off. That was the shot the tabloids would run of her. She looked terrible: furious, scared, but still hot as hell. Editors ate it up all over the country. It was a shot that would haunt her forever.

Scarsford yelled at the photographers to get back, and they got close enough to her building for the doormen to step in. Suddenly, she was in the lobby, safe.

Scarsford took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. It came away red.

“Am I bleeding?” Charlotte was surprised.

A brief smile flickered across his face. “No, more traditional. Tomato. Someone threw one, I guess, and splattered you.”

She looked down at her suit. Oh, yeah. All over her. “Just as well I picked navy.”

Scarsford’s phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he looked back a few moments later, she was gone, the distant chime of the elevator the only trace of her. The lobby guard was watching him expressionlessly, and after failing to come up with a legitimate reason to go after her, Scarsford left.

THE ANSWERING MACHINE was full, but the apartment was empty.

Greta and Davis had left, presumably to go home, but Greta had left her enough food for three dinners, and Davis had left a big note on her bed with his cell number and an exhortation not to go anywhere without calling him first.

Charlotte was glad to be alone. She needed to think.

She wandered upstairs and took a long shower, trying to relax and get rid of the smell of the downtown jail. Operating almost on auto pilot, she hot-oiled her hair and wrapped it in a warmed towel, then covered herself with pure shea butter warmed in her palms. A floor-length Turkish toweling robe and slippers made her feel almost cozy, and she curled up in her dad’s chair in the den, flicking on the plasma and curling her fingers around a fresh cup of hot chocolate.

She flicked from channel to channel for a while but couldn’t help herself. She turned to CNN. She spilled her cocoa.

Emily was on the screen, apparently standing in front of her building. The subtitle said, “Family Friend,” but Emily didn’t sound all that friendly.

“Yes, Mr. Williams was always at work. We hardly ever saw him. Charlotte was basically raised by the servants.”

Servants? Davis and Greta weren’t going to like that at all.

“It really isn’t surprising that Charlotte went off the rails like she did.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped. Emily disappeared, replaced by the horrific shot of her from earlier. Great. She looked like that Munch painting. The announcer was talking about her.

“Jacob Williams has a daughter, of course, the socialite Charlotte Williams, who was nearly expelled from Yale a year ago for allegedly burning down a building in a lovers’ spat.” Then they showed a variety of party shots of her, a few of them quite risqué. Where had those come from? Surely Emily wouldn’t have—

“At this time, Miss Williams is not a suspect in the fraud, but the authorities might well have questions going forward.”

Charlotte turned it off. Somewhere in the apartment, her phone was ringing. Then the house phone started. Her phone stopped, then started again. Charlotte realized there was no one in the world she wanted to talk to. No one except her dad, and he wasn’t taking calls right now. Unless it was him calling? She leaped up but didn’t make it in time. Standing there, she hit the play button on the answering machine.

Many of the messages were people yelling, which made her wonder how they’d gotten the number, but then she realized that they were her dad’s investors, and he’d presumably given out the number himself. Note to self: Change the number.

Suddenly, a friendly voice came out of the machine, making her gasp.

“Miss Charlotte, it’s Miss Millie here. I saw the news about your daddy, and I just wanted to remind you that God loves you, and so do I, and that you’re special and good, and whatever happens, you need to remember that, do ya hear? I think of y’all all the time and pray for you every night. Give my love to Miss Greta and Davis and, of course, to your lovely self. Come to New Orleans if you need to. We’ll be here! ‘Bye now.”

Other messages weren’t so nice.

“Charlotte, this is Michael Marshall.” Her dad’s partner had surfaced at last. Charlotte went to pick up the phone, forgetting for the moment that it was just a message. Marshall had paused, but then he continued. “I … uh … I’ll try you again later.” Click.

She called him back.

“Michael, it’s Charlotte. Are you all right?” He sighed.

It was a funny thing. When Michael Marshall had joined her father’s firm, it looked as if his daughter, Becky, and she were going to be friends. They were the same age, went to similar schools, had similar hobbies. For the first few months, the two families hung out together quite a bit: dinners here and there, a trip to the beach. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Becky didn’t return her calls, ignored her texts, unfriended her online. She’d been upset and tried for a while to get her to explain what had happened. Eventually, she’d given up. Now she had the sinking feeling she knew what had happened. Maybe.

“I’m fine, Charlotte. How are you? Were you able to see your dad?”

“Yes. He’s pretty confused, I think. Did they question you, too?”

There was a long pause. “Charlotte, I have to tell you something.” He sounded very old, and almost close to tears. “Your father was very good to me, and in many ways, he’s one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known. But he was breaking the law, Charlotte, and I knew it. For a while, I kept quiet, hoping it would stop or blow over or change in some way so I could leave with my conscience intact. But it didn’t. And I couldn’t look my own children in the eyes anymore, because I was involved.”

Charlotte’s blood grew cold. “So you turned on him to protect yourself?” Her voice was soft.

“They were catching on to us, anyway, Charlotte, I could see it was just a matter of time.”

“So you threw him to the wolves and presumably cut some kind of deal. That’s nice, Michael. Loyal. My father would be impressed.”

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