Sparkles Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  A PLUME BOOK

  SPARKLES

  Oxford-educated LOUISE BAGSHAWE worked in the record business before leaving at age twenty-three to write full-time. A bestselling novelist and screenwriter in the UK, her work has been published in nine languages, and she has adapted her novels for major Hollywood film studios.

  Praise for Louise Bagshawe

  “Bagshawe’s back on top form with her latest blockbuster. This tale of the wealthy Massot family will have you hooked from page one.”—heat magazine

  “Beach bliss.”—Elle

  “Britain’s younger, smarter answer to Jackie Collins.”

  —Mirror

  “If you like your novels fast-paced and full of characters you’d love to call a friend (or indeed an enemy), then you’ll really enjoy the latest one from Louise Bagshawe . . . Mouth-wateringly addictive.”—OK! Magazine

  “One of the most charming and lively romances I’ve read in a decade . . . I couldn’t stop reading it, or cheering on the heroine.”

  —Australian Women’s Weekly

  “A great book. A classic story of life, love, and ambition.”

  —Woman’s Own

  “Her novels are action-packed; her heroines gorgeous; and her writing punchy enough to sustain the rises and falls of these blindingly successful characters. . . . I loved it.”

  —Daily Mail (London)

  “A fat sexy book that throbs with vitality from the first page . . . Bagshawe has produced a classic of the genre.”

  —Daily Express (London)

  “One hell of a read . . . funny and ultra-glam, you’ll want to cancel all social engagements until you finish this.”

  —Company

  “Another gripping read, full of passion, betrayal and intrigue.”

  —Hot Stars

  PLUME

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Mairangi Bay, Auckland 1311, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Originally published in

  Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing, a division of Hodder Headline.

  First American Printing, April 2007

  Copyright © Louise Bagshawe, 2007

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Bagshawe, Louise.

  Sparkles / Louise Bagshawe.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04212-0

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to my friends Joe and Amy Pascal

  Acknowledgments

  As ever, I must begin with my friend and agent Michael Sissons, who signed me as an unpublished hopeful twelve years ago and who has made breaking authors from scratch look effortless. I am also extremely grateful to the entire team at Headline, especially my editor Harrie Evans, who gave me a novella’s worth of notes on this book and improved the final result immeasurably. My additional thanks go to Kerr MacRae, Martin Neild, Jane Morpeth, Georgina Moore, Catherine Cobain, James Horobin, Kate Burke, Amy Johnson, Poppy Shirlaw, Emily Kennedy, Barbara Ronan, Katherine Rhodes, Paul Endpresser, and the entire sales force. Extra special thanks to the Board and to all the occupants of the Comfy Chairs.

  In the U.S. I would like to thank my agent, Emma Parry, my editor Trena Keating and everybody at Plume—especially Ali Bothwell Mancini, Marie Coolman, Melissa Jacoby, and Abigail Powers. Every author wishes they had such a strong team behind them, and I appreciate how lucky I’ve been with Sparkles.

  Most of all, of course, I’m grateful to every one of my readers, and hope you will visit me at www.louise-bagshawe.com.

  Prologue

  “Ten million dollars, U.S.,” Pierre Massot said.

  The other man grunted; there was a crackle on the line. He hoped it wouldn’t go dead all of a sudden. Telecommunications were shoddy over there.

  “Twenty.”

  “I don’t have it.” He spoke with calm assurance. “Twelve. It’s the best I c
an do. Plus the equipment. Take it or leave it.”

  There was a pause; Massot felt his destiny hanging on the reply.

  “Very well.”

  He forced himself not to exhale. It was his habit not to show weakness.

  “You must be here soon, though.”

  “I leave tonight.” Pierre smiled. “I will see you shortly.”

  He hung up. Excellent . . . excellent. For the first time, he felt a crackle of excitement. Not the shallow thrills of a rich man, the ones he sought and obtained daily, but the real thing. That passion, that sizzle in the blood.

  Something Pierre had not felt for a long time. Not since the birth of Thomas. And before that. . . . Long before that. . . .

  He glanced around his huge corner office in the eighteenth-century building. It was elegant but a little nondescript, an ideal place to do serious business. At the heart of Paris, he had once thought of himself as a spider—his diamonds and gems sparkling like dewdrops on a web, enticing the prey in.

  Once you gained all you desired, though, you got fat and lazy. Pierre, who still did a hundred push-ups a day, did not want that.

  And now a window had opened to a whole new level. One which could only be bought at great personal risk. Paris belonged to him, soon it would be the world. Like Tiffany. Or, better—De Beers. . . .

  House Massot sold great jewellery. But Pierre wanted more. The raw materials.

  Diamonds.

  He walked over to his desk and opened the secret drawer with the tiny gold key he wore around his neck. On their bed of dark green baize, the samples nestled.

  Pierre drew them out and laid them in his hand. Breathtaking. They sparkled in the fading light of the evening, like tiny chips of ice glittering on his skin—as though moonlight could be captured and placed into cool, dazzling stones. One in particular caught his eye: It was blushing a rosy pink, like dawn over his château. A natural fancy pink, excellent clarity and rich colour saturation. At least three carats. It alone was worth at least ten million francs.

  When he returned from that otherworldly place, he decided, he would take all these stones and have them set in a necklace. It would be a collar of diamonds in twenty-four-karat gold, the rose pink pear shape nestling in the centre. He would hang it around the neck of his wife, Sophie; for she, like the diamonds . . . like the mines . . . like everything . . . belonged to him.

  His telephone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, sir.” It was his secretary, cool and efficient in the office, eager to please out of it—when he was in the mood. “It’s Mlle Judy on the phone.” Her dislike showed; Pierre was amused by her jealousy. “Shall I put her through?”

  He considered it. It might be a week, maybe two, before he was back. There might not be sufficient women on the journey. Young Judy was so slavishly adoring . . . so lithe, so fit; he had not been worshipped that way since Natasha, and he enjoyed her. . . .

  But no, not tonight. He did not want the distraction. He would conserve his energy, as he always did at important times.

  “No, I am busy.” He added cruelly, “I am returning to the château for dinner with my wife and son.”

  The minute sigh at the end of the receiver showed that the barb had gone home. He liked to remind his mistresses of their situation, at times; it prevented any unpleasantness, any foolish expectations.

  “Certainly, sir. Good evening, sir.”

  He wondered if he should visit his deputy, Gregoire Lazard. But he thought not. Lazard already knew too much. Tomorrow he would discover that Pierre had left, and in the meantime, he would have crossed the French border. The less anyone knew of his movements, the better.

  Pierre Massot remained a loner.

  He wanted to see his son and heir. Without speaking to anyone, he secured the sample diamonds, retrieved his coat, and stepped into his private elevator, the one that led directly to the garage.

  No farewells, no complications. He liked it that way.

  It was half six when his car reached the château. This was one of his favourite times of day: early evening, with his son playing in the bath, and Sophie, his little bride, waiting with a cocktail; he preferred a Tom Collins, and enjoyed her slight air of nervousness almost as much as the drink. Sophie was not the child bride she had once been; she was thirty-two now, but still with that milky English skin, those high cheekbones—a beauty that would last well into her fifties. Pierre had made that particular calculation early.

  She was not quite so gauche these days, not quite so grateful and nervous. His vast wealth had ceased to overawe her. But yet, she was still anxious around him, off balance, timid with the master of the house and her mother-in-law, the formidable and distant Katherine, who still withheld all approval and warmth.

  Sophie poured herself into Tom, which was precisely what Pierre intended she should do. She was loyal, stylish, and polite. A wonderful hostess, a loving mother, a decorative and obedient wife.

  Not all that thrilling, perhaps. But he sought excitement elsewhere. The qualities he wanted in a spouse were the exact opposites of those he looked for in a mistress.

  Well, there were plenty of women in the world. No one of them could be all things to Pierre.

  He walked briskly across the gravel drive towards the pillared entrance of his château. Sercourt, his butler, was there waiting; he silently took Pierre’s coat.

  “Is Master Thomas still in the bath?”

  “I believe so, Monsieur. Madame is with him in the East Wing. . . .”

  Pierre did not wait to hear the rest of the sentence; he bounded upstairs, unthinkingly, towards his son’s bathroom suite.

  “Papa!”

  Tom recognized his father’s tread; Pierre heard the hasty splashing as the taps turned off.The door swung open; Sophie was there, smiling softly at him.

  “You’re early, chéri,” she said. “I’m sorry—I haven’t got your drink ready. . . .”

  “That’s quite all right, my dear.” Pierre kissed her coolly on the cheek. “It’s Tom’s bath time.” He grinned at his naked son. “We always keep to our schedule, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I’ll get out!” Tom said eagerly. He jumped up, and Sophie rushed to swaddle him in a thick, fluffy towel. Pierre gazed, fascinated, at his son. Tom had his features, and it was strange—endlessly so—to see the joy that was written there, the love—like watching himself as a child, in an alternate universe, where his father had loved him.

  Tom was himself, altered. He wanted to believe it. The one corner of his heart that was not wholly closed he had given to his son. Perhaps because he saw himself, at eleven, but different—but better.

  “You’re all red. Like a Breton lobster,” Sophie said, and kissed him; she covered him with kisses, and Tom squealed, pretending to be annoyed, but his eyes lit up.

  “Papa,” he said eagerly. “Papa. Will you read me a story? Will you put me to bed?”

  Sophie looked up, anxiously, meeting Pierre’s eyes; putting Tom to bed was her job, and she was well aware, by now, that Pierre hated deviations.

  “Of course, my darling. I’d love to.” He bent down and gathered the boy in his arms, towel and all; to his wife, he said, “I’ll meet you in the drawing room.”

  She only hesitated a second. She loved to put Tom to bed, but she would not begrudge her husband the time.

  “Very well. God bless, sweetheart.” Sophie kissed Tom’s wet cheek, and then vanished noiselessly from the room.

  “Come on.” Pierre held out one hand to the little boy. “Let’s find your best pyjamas.”

  When his son was asleep, he came downstairs to find Sophie waiting. As he had expected, she had changed; she was wearing a pleasant dress of canary yellow silk with a pattern of green and white across the skirt, and some yellow South Sea pearl earrings he had given her for Easter. She hurried across the room to hand him his drink, but he set it aside. Alcohol had no place in his plans for the evening.

  “How are you, darling? How was your day
?”

  “Fine.” He smiled at her, but without warmth. “Is all as it should be in the house?”

  She shrank back slightly, as ever, fearful of his disapproval.

  “Darling—what do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “The gardeners. The grounds . . . the servants . . .”

  “Everything is perfect—exactly what you wanted.” Sophie looked worried. “Why, have you noticed anything wrong?”

  He shook his head. Yes, he could safely leave her in charge. She would change nothing.

  “Have you visited my mother lately?”

  “I went to see her this morning, for tea,” Sophie answered, promptly. Pierre knew how she hated the visits to Katherine, but she kept them up all the same; she understood the concept of family. That pleased him.

  He came over to her and kissed her on the cheek; his wife looked up at him, surprised.

  “Come to the door with me. See me off,” Pierre said.

  “See you off? But where are you going?”

  “Back to Paris.” He pressed her hand. “I have a couple of things to do; I may stay in the city for a few days.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Sophie said. “Come back soon.”

  He turned on his heel and walked back to his car; the lovely evening light was now fading over his pear orchard.

  Pierre Massot climbed into the car and drove away. And Sophie stood there, watching, until he disappeared.

  Chapter 1

  “So,” the old lady said. “You have come at last.”

  “Just so, Madame,” said Sophie, nervously.

  Her mother-in-law shook her head and made a little moue of annoyance with her thin lips.

  “Speak English, girl, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “You were never any good at French.”

  The maid was still hovering, pouring the tea, but Katherine Massot paid no notice. Of course she would snap at Sophie in front of a servant; in Katherine’s world, servants were invisible. They simply didn’t count.