Unscrupulous Read online

  “We have Palm Beach, Florida, or St. Barth’s, French West Indies. What’ll it be?” Taddy’s dream destination was made up, but she’d let Lex pick. She always did.

  Lex made a slight sigh. “I don’t care. Anywhere warm and away from my mother. We can buy a few new outfits when we arrive.”

  “I adore DILF porn, but not enough to go to Palm Beach. You?” Being mistaken as two young prostitutes strutting Worth Avenue wasn’t stacked in her good-time cards this holiday.

  “What the heck is DILF porn?” Lex was so innocent, thanks to Birdie’s gilded cage.

  “Dads I like to fuck—you never watch it?”

  “Certainly not. What does your acronym have to do with Palm Beach?” Lex asked, searching her for an answer.

  “The men in PB are gonna be older than my great-granddaddy. I don’t wanna spend the night with them in their adult diapers.” She broke into a fit of laughter, which relieved much of the stress that had piled high over the past week.

  Her friend rolled her eyes. “You’re twisted, and you get that, right?”

  “Not like I meant MILF.” She raised her eyebrows, egging her on.

  “Stop! Ignorance of adult movies is my bliss.” Lex shook her head.

  “St. Barth’s it is.” Together, they pulled their roller bags toward the French West Indies Airlines ticket counter. “We have to tell Vive we’re coming her way.”

  “Totally. She’ll kill us if we don’t.” Lex always tried to include everyone.

  “Anguilla isn’t far. Maybe she can take a boat over.”

  “I haven’t seen that Farnworth Firewater boat in years.” Lex laughed. “Is it still yellow?”

  “Beats me.” Taddy was happy how this had turned out. She’d finally get some alone time with her friends. “Something tells me this is going to be a blast.”

  She’d texted Kiki who cyber chatted with DJ Dejon who’d spun for a casino owner with several properties in the Leeward Caribbean Islands. The nightclub proprietor knew one hotel in St. Barth’s where three socialites could go and relax and be left alone, but they didn’t allow any celebrities or paparazzi. Kiki booked Taddy, Lex and Vive under the code name Mademoiselle Red in a three-bedroom villa separated by a living quarters at Secrète de St. Barth, a Warner Truman five-star resort.

  Taddy knew the hotel chain well. Brill, Inc. faced his midtown masterpiece, Truman Times Square. A large corporation, Truman Enterprises was synonymous with hotel excellence and first-class spa royalty.

  Chapter Five

  Pussy Glamour

  December 30

  St. Barth’s French West Indies

  “Rielle, you are violating the restraining order. You can’t call here.” Warner had been pretty sure he’d hear from his ex-fiancée this week. The flowers gave warning. Christmas and New Year’s always brought out remorse.

  “Being a dick is no way to start the New Year. I hoped…” She panted into the phone, sounding like a thirsty horse desperate for water. Her Texan twang grated on his nerves.

  “I don’t care what you wished. We ended ‘us’ awhile ago. Move on.” He unfastened his top button and rubbed his neck. Get lost, woman.

  “Please, Warner, give me another chance. We’ll be fine a second time around, as smooth as cream gravy.” Her voice grew louder. “I promise I have changed, honey pie.”

  “Changed?” Warner laughed. “You’re a chameleon. One woman one minute, and another woman the next. I don’t trust you.” He looked at the ceiling fan and hit the remote to make the blade spin faster. Air, he needed air.

  “I am still the same sweet girl you fell in love with.” The bar noise behind her boomed, confirming she’d never change.

  “The Rielle I cared for and loved spoke honest words—or so I thought.” He thought back to her championing his causes. She exuded poise and selflessness at the time. All fake.

  “I am still all those things and more…sugar.” She muffled the phone, perhaps to mute the racket.

  He’d met Rielle when she volunteered for the Jacqueline Truman Foundation, a nonprofit Warner had established in his late wife’s honor. Its purpose was to provide financial relief and treatment to those diagnosed with bone cancer, primarily for patients without health insurance. Warner appreciated Rielle’s unassuming ways. However, she’d identified him ages prior.

  After they’d broken up, her friends admitted she’d stalked him for months in hopes of an accidental introduction. When that didn’t happen, she applied to the foundation for a coordinator position. Warner was taken aback by her good looks and desire to commit to the cause. Rielle’s story about how she’d lost her mother, Connie Bruni, to bone cancer created a bond between them.

  On the contrary, Rielle’s intentions weren’t to help those in need, only herself. And Connie was alive and well living in The Great Ranch Trailer Park in Fort Worth, Texas. Connie was cancer free because she had never been diagnosed with the disease in the first place, all part of Rielle’s scam. “You based our entire courtship on some book you’d read.”

  “Landing a Billionaire was a bestseller for a reason.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Rielle released a nervous giggle. She spoke shyly until he heard her snigger twist an inhale into an annoying snort. In an attempt to cover her piggy tone she ticked off, “You’ve attended the rodeo before, Warner—haven’t you?”

  “Sure have. Then your thoroughbred persona revealed its donkey likeness and our cowboy exhibition was over.” Warner snarled, “Let’s recap.”

  “No—”

  “You tried to screw my brother.”

  “Well.”

  “Withdrew funds from my bank account.”

  “I hoped to pay you back.”

  “You’ve got two hundred thousand dollars you can give me?” He didn’t think so.

  “I could.”

  “Let’s not forget the biggest shitter of them all.”

  “Stop.”

  “Faking a pregnancy to secure our engagement.” His hands gripped the phone tight. He didn’t realize he’d get this worked up again over her, but he did.

  Rielle released a puff of air over the line. “Why I never…” She cleared her throat, ramping up for a second attempt. “Plenty of time has gone by for you…to cool down. You should be as calm as a June bug, sugar.” Rielle pressed on. “I’m fixin’ to swing by your St. Barth’s home tomorrow. We can talk about us in person.”

  “Stay in Dallas. There is no us.”

  “I’m not in Texas, baby. I’m at the Delano in Miami.” Amused with herself she snorted, twice.

  “You are not welcome here.” Warner leaned close to the desk’s edge. “We have nothing further to discuss, please do not contact me again.” He smiled in hopes she’d hear the sincerity and conviction in his voice and offered, “Have a wonderful New Year’s, Rielle, and a great life. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Sugar pie.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Warner, I’m coming to St.—”

  He returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle and rested his head on the desk.

  Warner hadn’t visited Secrète de St. Barth’s in months. Not since he’d called off his nuptials to Rielle. He hadn’t done much lately, spent time with his family in Newport, Rhode Island, toured his hotel properties in Middle and Far East Asia and spent the fall season in his favorite city in the world—Manhattan.

  A knock sounded on the office door. “Come in.” It was Kip Von Scott, his general manager.

  “My apologies for Rielle’s call,” Kip took ownership of the situation. “Our operator didn’t have your accepted phone number list when she patched her through.”

  “It’s okay, Kip. The holidays make people nutty. Rielle would’ve flown down here if I didn’t talk to her.” Warner sat back in the chair as his heartbeat returned to normal. If his ex-fiancée was in Miami and flew to St. Barth’s, she’d arrive in three hours. Assuming she’d probably connect in St. Maarten. He prayed that
was just another Rielle threat. He didn’t want to see her face.

  “Yes sir.” Kip stepped farther into his own office, which Warner used during his visit.

  “It’s nice to be back. Your team has kept the property in great shape.” Like most Manhattanites in his circle, he hated the snow and enjoyed St. Barth’s winters.

  “We’re happy to have you with us this week.” Kip glimpsed around, his face showing he was missing his office.

  “Thank you for offering your desk up this week.” He smirked. “Who do we have staying with us this New Year’s?”

  “The usual. Mr. and Mrs. Hayashis from Tokyo, the Yesikovs from St. Petersburg, Chile’s prime minister is here too. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  It didn’t take Warner’s MBA from Harvard University to ascertain when a property manager answered with a “nothing out of the ordinary” to conclude something quite extraordinary had or would be taking place.

  “Why did I see paparazzi when I came into the lobby a few hours ago?”

  “Right…” Kip looked at the floorboards.

  “Secrète de St. Barth’s retains a strict ‘no celeb’ policy.” Warner didn’t want this location to get lost to the Hollywood drama. He owned a mansion nearby. The island was as much his holiday getaway as his guests who came to relax. Each resort in the Truman Enterprise’s profile possessed different traits and characteristics. For example, Cannes, France, exuded glamour. Bangkok, Thailand, gave outstanding service and this Caribbean castle ranked high in privacy and seclusion.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Our shareholders don’t want this property to become one of those types of establishments.” He stood. “They can go to Eden Mal Rock down the beach, but not here.” He pointed out the window.

  Warner’s eyes squinted and then refocused. A bright orange racing boat was docked at their pier. Sleek in design, the vessel’s side read in bright yellow “Farnworth Firewater”. Underneath the brand logo was the slogan “Party with our girl Vive”.

  What the hell…?

  Located on the east end of the island, Secrète de St. Barth’s faced a picturesque beach on a turquoise cove protected from the ocean waves by a coral reef. Voted by Luxury Travel Channel as “the pre-eminent hush-lush hideaway in the world,” guests lounged in their swim trunks, women topless. Royal dignitaries and those born into old money came to Secrète de St. Barth’s to get away from the world. Not to whoop it up.

  “I’ll tell them.” Kip turned for the door.

  Curious, he asked, “Who is he?” Who’d come to Secrète de St. Barth’s for New Year’s Eve? This property exuded quiet.

  “Our guest is a she, three young women registered under an alias. The bellman who took two of the ladies’ bags noted their luggage tags. They flew in from JFK,” he smiled. “It’s Lex Easton.”

  “As in the late Eddie Easton’s daughter?” Suddenly, his favorite Eddie song, “Sandman’s Witching Hour”, played in his head.

  “The one and only.” Kip’s excitement at her arrival showed on his face. “The press caught them at the airport and followed them here. We sent the reporters away.”

  “Miss Easton received quite a raw deal.” Poor thing had gotten ruined in the press growing up. “Who did she fly in with?”

  “A real beauty—didn’t give a name. I put them in the Nouveau Beauté suite.”

  The Nouveau Beauté suite had been built as an old spa in the 1950s. When Warner acquired the property, he turned it into a villa for hotel guests and designed a new skin and body center adjacent. Secrète de St. Barth’s regular guests didn’t care for the room’s location. Too far from the lobby, they didn’t fancy the walk.

  “It’s not a nurse or personal manager or anything, is it?”

  “No sir.”

  “Miss Easton isn’t here to detox, is she?” He hated when celebrities used his rooms to dry out from partying or heal after their elective cosmetic enhancements. Truman Enterprises would be made liable if they dropped dead, and they sometimes did. Pontiak Fontana, a chart-topping R&B singer, had been found floating in his Beverly Hills property’s tub a few months ago. They were just starting to put the scandal behind them.

  “My concerns are the same, sir. But our bellman, Tristan, assured me the women smelled, stood and spoke sober. Her friend didn’t appear to be a nurse, rather gave the impression she might be a family member. Let me pull their card. One minute.” Kip left the office and returned with a file, which he handed over.

  Warner read over the printout. “American Express reads Tabitha Adelaide Brillford.”

  “Correct.” Kip grinned.

  “Never heard of her.” Of course, he’d heard the Brillford name. They were an academic family from Manhattan society and had won various Nobel Prizes for their work in economics and finance. Central Park had benefited over the years from the Brillfords’ generous donations. This Tabitha wouldn’t be caught dead with an Easton if she came from their stock. “Care to tell me about the boat parked in our dock?”

  “It belongs to the third guest who arrived to meet them. She’s staying in the suite as well.”

  “Name?”

  Kip glanced down at the reservation. “A Viveca Farnworth. She came over today from Anguilla.”

  “Obviously.”

  Farnworth Firewater sponsored trashy sex parties along the East Coast. The Farnworth family equated to trouble and owned one of the largest alcohol brands in the world.

  “Sir, Miss Farnworth dropped a liquor case off for the dining hall. She came to rest with her friends and left a note that they aren’t to be disturbed under any circumstances.” In the trained to deal with difficult guests aka the Truman Enterprises manager’s smile, Kip flashed his whites and continued, “It says in the room instructions that we are to leave breakfast, lunch and dinner at the door. They have the gym blocked out to exercise in private tomorrow, sir.”

  “All standard, except for the odd gym request.” Familiar with eccentric guests’ requests, he assumed the girls were too chubby to work out in public. Hmmm, maybe they’re here to lose weight.

  “They fly back to New York on January second, sir. I don’t imagine they’ll do us any harm. Miss Farnworth reserved the dock until tomorrow. Then she’s sailing back to Anguilla.”

  “Let them stay.”

  Kip seemed pleased he’d gotten his way and smiled, then dropped his head. “And, Mr. Warner, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry to hear about Rielle. I know how much you loved her.”

  “I thought I did, Kip.” Blinded? Yes. Pussy whipped? Fuck no. “People change, and just when you think you know someone, they wind up being something they’re not. I don’t regret my decision not to marry Rielle in the least. I’m better off. And so is she.”

  “Enjoy your night, sir.” Kip left the office.

  Hearing Rielle’s voice had made his blood run cold. Warner wondered why a woman couldn’t be herself—say what she meant and call it as she saw it. He’d always admired the up-front and honest approach, no smoke and mirrors. Didn’t women use this strategy anymore to date? Or were the rules different when one became a billionaire? He asked himself these questions as he headed to Privé Extreme, his favorite watering hole, for a nightcap.

  * * * * *

  Vajazzling was listed on Secrète de St. Barth’s spa service menu, which shocked Taddy. She’d deemed the Warner Truman resort and spa elegant, but too stuffy for her taste. With a desire for pussy glamour, she’d asked the French beauty therapist, Brigitte, if she could squeeze in time for a ruby gem application. Brigitte sprinkled the crystals over her upper pubic area. Lex spent the day in the pool swimming as Vive nursed her post-Christmas hangover with a midday nap.

  Taddy zipped the side of the Céline dress up. Phoebe Philo, the garment’s designer, always managed to make her look her best. She didn’t see the sense in sporting her usual thong with the vajazzling goings-on. Walking across the suite, she caught Vive coming out of her room.

  “Love my dress?” Decked in a
gold slinky number, Vive spun around for approval. Taddy nodded a yes. “It’s Bottega Veneta. I adore this metallic fabric. We covered the collection in my last issue.” Vive’s knack for stealing fashion samples from editorial shoots and never returning them had started many years ago. Since Vive wore a size two, she snagged whatever the models sported. Unlike Taddy, whose outfits were tailored for taller sizes, she wasn’t as fortunate.

  Taddy knocked on Lex’s door. “Darling—you ready?”

  Lex opened the bedroom door, phone glued to her ear, hair undone, shouting into the phone, “No, Mom—tomorrow when midnight strikes and the ball drops, Manhattan will not experience another 2003 blackout.” Her friend covered the receiver. “Go ahead without me and have fun.”

  “We can wait,” Vive offered. The insincerity in her tone suggested otherwise.

  “No, go.” Lex waved them on. “I’ll catch up with you girls later.”

  Taddy went out to the foyer and brushed her hair back in the mirror, creating the desired Gisele Bündchen look. She spritzed her favorite tuberose perfume, followed by an aerosol hair douse round of hairspray. I’m scented, sealed and ready to go. Grabbing her Judith Leiber Aurelie croc clutch, she called out, “Take your time, Lex. Text us when you’re ready and we’ll let you know where we are.”

  “Tell Birdie—Taddy and I wish her a happy New Year.” Vive’s eyes rolled. “Let’s get a drink or two or three.” She grabbed some furry-looking dead animal thing from the counter.

  “What the hell are you carrying?”

  “Tom Ford’s latest handbag.” Vive seemed proud.

  “I’ve never seen black and white striped long fur. Except on a—”

  “Skunk…Taddy. It’s skunk and I love it.”

  “Does it smell?”

  “No, honey, it’s as in-vogue as mink. Skunk is the new thang. Wait and see.”

  You twisted magazine editor.

  * * * * *

  Marijuana proved easier to score from the concierge than finding the local watering hole. Taddy tipped the Secrète de St. Barth bellman, whose name tag read Tristan, two hundred dollars to tell her where Vive and she could go to have a nighttime pick-me-up. They were hoping for a festive night but they sure weren’t going to get that in their stuffy hotel.