was dominated by her amazing legs. Legs from the floor up to her armpits. Legs unadorned by hosiery or clothing or anything whatsoever.
Legs for Carl to see and admire and touch and fondle and she really didn't care if Toliver had a good look, either. She was on display, as always.
Carl rubbed them because they felt nice, but he wanted to say something like 'These things are beginning to resemble broomsticks.'
He let it pass.
'Any word from the trial?' she finally asked.
'The jury nailed us,' he said.
'I'm so sorry.'
'We're fine.'
'How much?'
'Forty-one million.'
'Those ignorant people.'
Carl told her little about the complicated and mysterious world of the Trudeau Group.
She had her charities and causes and lunches and trainers, and that kept her busy.
He didn't want and didn't tolerate too many questions.
Brianna had checked online and knew exactly what the jury decided. She knew what the lawyers were saying about the appeal, and she knew Krane's stock would take a major hit early the next morning. She did her research and kept her secret notes.
She was gorgeous and thin, but she was not stupid. Carl was on the phone.
The MuAb building was a few blocks south, between Fifth and Madison. As the traffic inched closer, they could see the popping flashes of a hundred cameras. Brianna perked up, crunched her perfect abs, brought her new additions to attention, and said, 'God, I hate those people.'
'Who?'
'All those photographers.'
He snickered at the obvious lie. The car stopped and an attendant in a tuxedo opened the door as the cameras swung to the black Bentley. The great Carl Trudeau popped out without a smile, then the legs followed. Brianna knew precisely how to give the photographers, and thus the gossip pages and maybe, just maybe, a fashion magazine or two, what they wanted-miles of sensuous flesh without revealing everything. The right foot landed first, shoed with Jimmy Choo at a hundred bucks per toe, and as she expertly swung around, the coat opened and Valentino cooperated upward and the whole world saw the real benefit of being a billionaire and owning a trophy.
Arm in arm they glided across the red carpet, waving at the photographers and ignoring the handful of reporters, one of whom had the audacity to yell, 'Hey, Carl, any comment on the verdict in Mississippi?' Carl of course did not hear, or pretended not to.
But his pace quickened slightly and they were soon inside, on somewhat safer turf.
He hoped. They were greeted by paid greeters; coats were taken; smiles were offered; friendly cameras appeared; old pals materialized; and they were soon lost in the warm cluster of seriously rich people pretending to enjoy one another's company.
Brianna found her soul mate, another anorexic trophy with the same unusual body-everything superbly starved but the ridiculous breasts. Carl went straight for the bar, and almost made it before he was practically tackled by the one jerk he hoped to avoid.
'Carl, ole boy, bad news down south I hear,' the man boomed as loudly as possible.
'Yes, very bad,' Carl said in a much lower voice as he grabbed a champagne flute and began to drain it.
Pete Flint was number 228 on the Forbes list of the 400 richest Americans. Carl was number 310, and each man knew exactly where the other fit on the roster. Numbers 87 and 141 were also in the crowd, along with a host of unranked contenders.
'Thought your boys had things under control,' Flint pressed on, slurping a tall glass full of either scotch or bourbon. He somehow managed a frown while working hard to conceal his delight.
'Yes, we thought so, too,' Carl said, wishing he could slap the fat jowls twelve inches away.
'What about the appeal?' Flint asked gravely.
'We're in great shape.'
At last year's auction, Flint had valiantly hung on to the frenzied end and walked away with the Brain After Gunshot, a $6 million artistic waste but one that launched the MuAb's current capital campaign. No doubt he would be in the hunt for tonight's grand prize.
'Good thing we shorted Krane last week,' he said.
Carl started to curse him but kept his cool. Flint ran a hedge fund famous for its daring. Had he really shorted Krane Chemical in anticipation of a bad verdict? Carl's puzzled glare concealed nothing.
'Oh yes,' Flint went on, pulling on his glass and smacking his lips. 'Our man down there said you were screwed.'
'We'll never pay a dime,' Carl said gamely.
'You'll pay in the morning, ole boy. We're betting Krane's stock drops 20 percent.'
And with that he turned and walked away, leaving Carl to finish off his drink and lunge for another. Twenty percent? Carl's laser-quick mind did the math. He owned 45 percent of the outstanding common shares of Krane Chemical, a company with a market value of $3.2 billion, based on the day's closing price. A 20 percent decline would cost him 1280 million, on paper. No real cash losses, of course, but still a rough day around the office.
Ten percent was more like it, he thought. The boys in finance agreed with him.
Could Flint 's hedge fund short a significant chunk of Krane's stock without Carl knowing about it? He stared at a confused bartender and pondered the question. Yes, it was possible, but not likely. Flint was simply rubbing a little salt.
The museum's director appeared from nowhere, and Carl was delighted to see him. He would never mention the verdict, if he in fact knew about it. He would say only nice things to Carl, and of course he would comment on how fabulous Brianna looked. He would ask about Sadler and inquire into the renovation of their home in the Hamptons.
They chatted about such things as they carried their drinks through the crowded lobby, dodging little pockets of dangerous conversations, and settled themselves before Abused Imelda. 'Magnificent, isn't it?' the director mused.
'Beautiful,' Carl said, glancing to his left as number 141 happened by. 'What will it go for?'
'We've been debating that all day around here. Who knows with this crowd. I say at least five million.'
'And what's it worth?'
The director smiled as a photographer snapped their picture. 'Now, that's an entirely different issue, isn't it? The sculptor's last major work was sold to a Japanese gentleman for around two million. Of course, the Japanese gentleman was not donating large sums of money to our little museum.'
Carl took another sip and acknowledged the game. MuAb's campaign goal was $100 million over five years. According to Brianna, they were about halfway there and needed a big boost from the evening's auction.
An art critic with the Times introduced himself and joined their conversation. Wonder if he knows about the verdict, Carl thought. The critic and the director discussed the Argentine sculptor and his mental problems as Carl studied Imelda and asked himself if he really wanted it permanently situated in the foyer of his luxurious penthouse.
His wife certainly did.
Chapter 3
The Paytons' temporary home was a three-bedroom apartment on the second level of an old complex near the university. Wes had lived nearby in his college days and still found it hard to believe he was back in the neighborhood. But there had been so many drastic changes it was difficult to dwell on just one.
