Rose’s mouth dropped open. “You want to be my partner?”

  “You could do worse. I’m pretty good at it too. I bought that place in Alphabet City.”

  Rose shook her head. “Jacob…”

  “Here you are, sir, madam,” said the waiter, laying down two vast plates of succulent beef, with spinach and roast potatoes and crisp green beans.

  “Why don’t you eat on it,” Rothstein said. “You’ll be in a better mood on a full stomach.”

  She was starving. “OK,” she agreed.

  Rothstein took a mouthful of steak and washed it down with the red wine. “Let’s not talk about business. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Like what?”

  He grinned. “Tell me about your day.”

  Rose stared at him, then burst into a peal of laughter.

  “What’s funny?” he asked. “I didn’t think I was being that witty.”

  “My day,” she said.

  “Something happen?”

  “Man,” Rose said. “You think this conversation was a bombshell to me? Not today. Not after what just happened to me.” She shook her head. “You have no idea.”

  “So tell me. I’ve got all night.”

  * * *

  They ate, Rothstein waiting impatiently while Rose broke off from talking to eat some more food—she demolished everything on her plate, which he enjoyed watching, but not when he was so gripped by her story. He asked her a couple of times if she was joking, but she denied it, and he could see she was telling the truth.

  “So what do you think it means?” he asked eventually, when she was done.

  “I have no idea. It means I have two blood-sisters, and they want me to get to know them, which is fine. But family isn’t like powdered coffee—just add genes and acquaintance, instant sisterhood.”

  He was thoughtful. “Look, what are you doing after this?”

  “Going the hell home and going to bed,” Rose said.

  “Come back with me,” Jacob said. “I don’t think you should be by yourself tonight.”

  Sixty-One

  Rose couldn’t believe she had let herself be persuaded.

  It was late, very late. She may have stayed up later than this before, but this had certainly been the longest day of her life, and she was spending the rest of it at Jacob Rothstein’s place?

  Maybe exhaustion had weakened her will, she thought, as she parked the Porsche in his underground, gated garage.

  Just remember one thing: you’re not gonna go to bed with him, she warned herself. Absolutely, 100 percent not.

  “Hey.” Rothstein was standing over her, having courteously opened her door and helped her out. “Just remember one thing, Fiorello, I’m not going to go to bed with you. Sorry. It takes more than a good steak and a glass of wine to buy my affection.”

  Rose laughed.

  “Curses, foiled again,” she said.

  “Let’s go upstairs and talk about this,” he said. “I have a private elevator right here.”

  Rose dutifully followed him. “I don’t know why I’m here, Jacob.”

  “Because you wanted to be with me.”

  She ignored that. “I don’t even have a toothbrush or a nightgown.”

  “I keep a package of guest toiletries. I have a spare bedroom with its own bathroom. And don’t sleep in any clothes on my account.”

  Rose looked at him.

  “I guess I may have a spare pair of silk pajamas that I keep for ladies,” Rothstein admitted.

  “Well, aren’t you smooth.”

  “I’m not a monk.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have expected all that stuff. Wouldn’t your female guests typically be spending the night in the main bedroom, sans pajamas?”

  Rothstein grinned at her. “Makes them feel safe to know they have another option, which relaxes them, and then…” He spread his hands.

  “Machiavelli,” she said.

  He bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “I tend to go with whatever works. Unfortunately you know that strategy, so now I’ll have to come up with another one.”

  The elevator, an old-fashioned fantasy in carved brass, burgundy leather and smoky mirrors, hissed smoothly to a stop. Rose’s stomach felt as though it had been left several floors below, but she wasn’t sure if that was from the ride or from being this close to Jacob.

  Male company. She just wasn’t used to it.

  Of course, he was a little more than plain male company. That strong chest in the well-cut suit, that square jaw, the dark, close-cropped hair, the thick black lashes. Rose’s phantom stomach, wherever it might be, squirmed with desire. But she looked away and stepped out of the elevator car.

  Now was not the time. Her defenses were way, way down.

  * * *

  Jacob was as good as his word. He showed her into the opulent guest bedroom, with its marble-and-gold en suite bathroom and a little balcony that double windows opened onto, with a fabulous view of Fifth and the spire of St. Patrick’s a few blocks up. He laid out the silk pajamas, the electric toothbrush, some Rembrandt, a pre-packed case of Molton Brown shampoos and conditioners, Floris bath essences, L’Occitane shower gel, a pair of Moroccan slippers embroidered with gold thread, and, finally, an incredibly inviting, enveloping, warm robe in the softest white cashmere.

  “If you want to get changed, I make a mean hot chocolate.”

  Rose was impressed, but still suspicious. “And are you gonna be decent when I come out?”

  “I’m more than decent, baby,” he said, “but you aren’t getting to find that out tonight.”

  She surrendered, closed her door, and got changed. It felt good to peel off her clothes and take a quick shower with some of that exquisitely scented lavender gel. His towels were white and fluffy, and she dried off, pulled on the pajamas, the slippers and the robe, and emerged to find Jacob in a pair of karate pants and a T-shirt.

  “You’re a black belt?”

  “Third Dan,” he said, “so you can feel quite safe.”

  He handed her a steaming mug of frothy hot chocolate. She took a sip; it was delicious.

  Jacob paused. He had something to say to Rose, and wasn’t sure if he should. But she deserved to hear it.

  “Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or anything—”

  Rose smiled. “I think I’m already about as freaked out as I could possibly be, so a little more is not going to make much difference.”

  “Then don’t you think it’s a little odd that two identical triplet sisters of yours turn up in New York, today?”

  “Well, of course it’s odd. It’s practically unbelievable, except for the fact that it did happen, and I was there.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Jacob said.

  “Sometimes they do happen. Somebody wins the lottery almost every week, and the odds against it for that particular guy are fourteen million to one, but he still wins.”

  “Do you play the lottery?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bad odds,” Rose said, laughing.

  “Exactly. Now, I’m assuming that these two women actually are your sisters.”

  “What other possibility is there?”

  “Elaborate plastic surgery, I suppose, but I can’t see any motivation for that. They both seem very successful and well-known in their fields.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I agree with Magnus Soren. Somebody evidently intended that you three girls should not meet.”

  Rose nodded. “But that’s all in the past, now.”

  Jacob shrugged. “I’m surprised.”

  “At what?”

  “That you would let this go. After all, you pursued my father for hounding your father out of his lease. But you’re willing to let the person who split you up from your sisters get away with it?”

  Rose paused. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  His words struck her in the heart. She felt pale, and unusually weak, and flopped into one of Jacob’s antique chairs.

  Concern crossed his face. “Hey, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s too much for you to take in, all at once.”

  “No, it’s OK. You’re right.” Rose looked up at him. “You sound like you care about me.”

  “Of course I care about you,” he said simply. “You’re my woman.”

  She felt an instant flood of desire.

  Rose leaned over. Her plump lips were slightly parted, she felt hot and weak with longing. She kissed him full on the lips, sliding her tongue in between his teeth, feeling his momentary hesitation, and then his strong arms around her as he pulled her close to him, his rough fingertips sliding in among the cashmere and silk to find her breast, cupping it with his hand, stroking and teasing until she was almost maddened …

  “We can’t,” Rothstein said. He pushed her away, and ran a hand through his hair. He was sweating with wanting her.

  “We can do whatever we want,” Rose said, “we’re over twenty-one.”

  “I can’t take advantage of you like this. Not today. Of all days.”

  “Goddammit, Rothstein.”

  “Sorry,” he said, unrepentantly. “When you’re in your right mind. I’ve waited for you too long to take you like this.”

  Sixty-Two

  Poppy decided that she didn’t want to talk to Henry right away. She had some things to do first.

  She took a flight back to L.A., went straight to her offices, and called Dani in.

  “What’s up?” her right-hand woman said. She could tell right away, by Poppy’s face, that it was something serious. “I don’t think you should sweat it about Menace, by the way. You made the right decision. We should have dumped them long ago.”

  “Don’t you sometimes wish we could dump them all?” Poppy asked.

  Dani laughed. “Yeah! The very next time I take a call from a groupie threatening a paternity suit, or a longhaired stoner rock star bitching about the green M & Ms somebody didn’t pick out of his rider…”

  “I want to get rid of the whole thing, Dani,” Poppy said seriously. “I mean it. Menace were the worst, but I can’t take the hand-holding anymore. Even Travis is bitching all the time now.”

  Dani blinked. “But Poppy, management is what we do. What else would we do?” She looked panicked. “I know they can be selfish jerks, but I love the record business. This is my life, and I don’t want to give it up. Is this something Henry wants?”

  Poppy sighed. “Not at all. He was right, I was being a bit of a spoiled bitch.”

  “You? Never.”

  “Cow,” Poppy said, grinning. “I love the record business too, but I don’t think management is right for me.”

  “Not right? Opium is, like, the hottest new firm, you manage all kinds of different acts, you got record companies begging you to take on their baby bands, I even had some classical guy call me and ask me to take a look at his new violinist…”

  “Oh yeah?” Poppy asked, momentarily distracted. “Was it another ‘This-chick-plays-the-violin-and-she’s-really-hot-so-let’s-do-a-rebel-classical-album-where-she-comes-out-of-the-sea-holding-her-Stradivarius-and-wearing-nothing-but-a-G-string’ type deal?”

  Dani laughed. “Pretty much. The twist was that this was a boy, really buff, looks like he belongs in *NSYNC.”

  “Oy vey,” Poppy said. “I hate those acts. Ugh.”

  Dani chuckled. “But you don’t mean it about folding Opium?”

  “I mean it about getting out of the management business. I think we can expand.”

  “What do you mean?” Dani asked warily. “You’re famous for being a manager. If you switch you’d have to start from the bottom.”

  “Didn’t stop David Geffen, or Cliff Burnstein, or Peter Mensch, or…”

  “OK, OK,” Dani said, “so what, then?”

  Poppy leaned across the desk and smiled at her. “How does our own record label sound?”

  * * *

  Poppy refused to stay more than a day in Los Angeles. She told Dani to start winding up Opium Management without her, drawing up lists of who would stay and who would go. Everybody got generous severance pay, enough to cushion the blow. But she didn’t want to deal with the moans of her former employees, or the sudden panicked wail of acts who realized they were going to lose their manager, the young woman who had nursed them to stardom. She took the time out to call Travis Jackson personally, but that was it.

  Travis was surprisingly reasonable, reverting to the cool young guy he’d been when they first met.

  “So you’re switching from the side of the angels, huh, baby? Gonna work for The Man?”

  “Or The Woman,” Poppy said, responding to his teasing. “I got some names of people I think would be great for you to go with.”

  “They won’t be you,” he said, sighing. “But I guess this was inevitable.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “A girl like you can’t really work for somebody else, not even for rock stars,” he said, and Poppy thought it was one of the biggest compliments she’d ever been paid.

  “So what now?” Travis asked.

  Poppy thought of Henry LeClerc, the next senator from Louisiana, if she had anything to do with it.

  “I have a little personal business to take care of,” she said.

  * * *

  She hopped on a flight to New Orleans, where the Congressman was holed up, starting the laborious task of pulling his ratings back out of the drain that Poppy’s image had plunged them into. Flicking through the papers in her first-class seat, Poppy noted that his poll ratings had gone up two points since the news had broken that she’d left him, or he’d left her. But Henry was refusing to comment on it. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, she guessed.

  Poppy rang Don Rickles, his chief of staff, from her SkyPhone. The call was about forty dollars a minute, but it was worth it.

  “It’s Poppy. I want to see him.”

  “Can’t you just leave him alone? You come back, you’ll ruin everything we’ve worked for,” the aide hissed at her.

  “Actually, no I won’t; and you know you can’t keep me from him, so don’t even try,” Poppy said.

  He sighed deeply, and told her to hold. In a minute, Henry’s voice was on—polite, guarded; it pulled at her heartstrings.

  “Can I help you, Poppy?”

  “You sure can. I fired Menace.”

  “That’s good, but—”

  “In fact I fired all my acts. I quit. Look, you were right. When can I see you?”

  “Any time you like, sugar,” he said, and she could hear the ear-splitting grin in his voice on the crackly satellite phone. “Any time. I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” she said, “and I have so much to tell you, you’re just not gonna believe it.”

  * * *

  Daisy spent the morning with Janus, updating them on everything. Their investigators met her at the utilitarian offices, listening and taking notes, but not doing much talking.

  “Well? Don’t you think this changes everything?” Daisy asked.

  Doug Berkshire smiled thinly. “We had just put together the files on your sisters. We were about to present them, but it seems you got there first.” He sighed. “However, we haven’t been able to discover anything at all about your parents. Nothing that matters.”

  “If you know something, I want you to tell me now,” Daisy pleaded.

  “I will certainly give you our files, but we have discovered nothing except that the adoption agencies were dummies, fly-by-night shops that disappeared once each daughter had been adopted. We can’t find anybody involved with them. Your case,” and he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “has some well-covered tracks in it. The only mistake that was made seems to have been that the three sisters were allowed to live.”

  “At least tell me if there are anymore sisters out there.”

  “No. Three.” He nodded. “Three girls.”

  “Well,” Daisy said, slightly disappointed, “I suppose that’s enough news to be getting on with.”

  “There won’t be any more news,” he said flatly. “I’m afraid we’ve done all we can here.”

  * * *

  Rose woke up, not sure where she was. A very comfortable bed, with silk sheets, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Really streaming in … it was late, she thought groggily; she never got up this late. Automatically, she swung her feet out of bed, but instead of meeting her hardwood floors, they touched soft, warm, thick carpet …

  She rubbed her eyes. She was in Jacob Rothstein’s bed.

  His spare bed.

  The previous day, and night, came flooding back to her.

  Maybe Jacob wasn’t here, maybe he’d gone to work. She felt instantly self-conscious, embarrassed. She had been panting after him last night like a bitch in heat, and he’d said no, and he’d said he wanted to wait until—now.

  “Good morning.”

  Jacob’s head appeared around the door, and Rose jumped out of her skin. She gathered the white cashmere robe hastily to her, protectively.

  “How did I know you wouldn’t feel the same way this morning?” he said. “You act like a goddamn virgin, Rose, you know that?”

  “Actually,” Rose said with dignity, “I am a virgin.”

  He stared at her. “Get out. I thought you were joking, before. And still nobody?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”

  “Hmm.” Rothstein ran a hand through his hair. “That’s kind of romantic, when you think about it. Weird, but you always were weird.”

  “You’re weird,” Rose retorted, childishly.

  “I’m not gonna be the one to change it.”

  “Nobody asked you to,” Rose said, surprised at how disappointed and rejected that made her feel.

  “At least not right now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Rothstein?”

  “You. Me. I told you, you’re my woman.” He came over and sat on the side of the bed. “Yesterday I proposed a business partnership.”

  “Yes, you did, and I haven’t made my mind up about it yet…”

  “Sure you have,” he said confidently. “You’d love to take over Rothstein Realty with me.”