“And you’re not building cars,” she said. “Where’s the fire in the gut?”

  “I may go to Japan. Maybe I can do better with Shizoka.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. No Japanese company is going to give you autonomy.”

  “And Loren would?”

  “Loren faces two possibilities,” she said. “The company’s in trouble again. He changes things or he sells out.”

  “The raiders are still out there?”

  “They figure they can get it cheap and make something out of it.” She grinned. “Hey, the first thing they’ll do if they get the company is offer you the presidency.”

  Angelo shook his head. “And let me build cars? I doubt it.”

  “Tuck your goddamned pride in a little bit, Angelo,” said Roberta. “Using a little bit of smarts, you can be a vice president again, with more power than you ever had.”

  He shook his head again. “Fuck it, Roberta. Why would I want to buy grief? Besides, what makes you think Loren and his lackeys would—”

  “Let me tell you what makes me think so—makes me know so—if you’re not smart enough to figure it out. The dealers, lover. The goddamned dealers are in your corner, and Betsy’s. If they bail out—”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “You got it,” she said. “No dealers, no company. Dead.”

  She began flexing her shoulders, twisting her neck, and rubbing her breasts—fixing on Angelo a smile that let him know exactly what she had in mind.

  “Autonomy,” he said firmly. “Absolute autonomy.”

  “I can get it for you,” she said, showing a little impatience. “Let me handle Loren, as usual. Now you handle me. I’m going to give it to you good tonight. I’m still the best you ever had.”

  “You’ve got the biggest ego about it anybody ever had.”

  That didn’t discourage her. She set to work on him. He was not yet ready to make her an unalloyed enemy, so he accepted as much of her as he could take.

  2

  “You let me handle Mr. Angelo Perino,” Roberta said to Loren. “Let’s get on with what I told you I want. You don’t need to undress. I want it right now.”

  She pulled her black skirt up around her hips, shoved her panties down around her ankles, and spread her legs. Loren put his jacket aside but otherwise fully dressed got down on his knees in front of her. He pushed his face up into her crotch and began giving her cunnilingual sex.

  Roberta lit a Chesterfield and leaned back comfortably on the couch.

  Loren used his hands to spread her a little more. He licked her petals, found her clit and flicked it with his tongue, then bobbed his head to run his tongue up and down her whole furrow.

  “You’ve gotten a whole lot better at that than you were when I introduced you to the idea,” she said in a throaty voice.

  “Practice makes perfect,” he said, and then paused. “Perino, huh? We really have to?”

  “Or see the company go under,” she said. “We’re going to have to borrow money. Perino is essential. Without him the banks won’t go along. There’ll be time later to dump his ass.”

  “Dump isn’t enough. I want his ass.”

  “You’re going to get it.”

  Loren nodded, then pushed his face into her crotch again. He worked vigorously, and Roberta gently tousled his hair.

  “You know,” she said, “at first you didn’t like this and did it only because I wanted it. Now I’m damned if I don’t think you like it.”

  “Umm-hmm,” he murmured. “Mmmmm!”

  “Damned good thing you like what I like. ‘Cause you and I are committed to each other for life. We got a murder between us, lover. The idea of sitting in a cell in the Michigan reformatory for women for the rest of my life doesn’t appeal to me.”

  3

  “There’s another advantage to putting XB Motors heavily in debt,” said Bill Adams. “It will make the company a whole lot less attractive to raiders. Froelich & Green will back off fast when they find out the company has borrowed four hundred and seventy-five million dollars.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” said Angelo.

  Bill laughed. “I’ll get some fees.”

  They were at the Indian Harbor Yacht Club for dinner. Angelo and Bill were in the bar. Cindy and Alicia were coming separately and had not yet arrived.

  “I took the option on the land,” said Angelo. “I’d have liked to build the plant somewhere besides Detroit, but the mayor was very persuasive about how much it would hurt the city if we moved the company somewhere else. Anyway, our suppliers are all set up to deliver to Detroit. We’d have had to make too many changes.”

  “Are you aware,” asked Bill, “that a group of people here in Greenwich have formed an S Stallion owners’ club?”

  “Yes. They’ve asked me to make a speech. I don’t know how I’ll handle the question about why Cindy and I don’t drive ours anymore.”

  “Do you want to say anything about what kind of car the new Stallion will be?”

  “It will be smaller,” said Angelo. “The concept of the six-passenger sedan is all but dead, and it’s absolutely dead for XB. I’ve encountered strong resistance to the epoxy resin body for a standard-size passenger car, so it will be steel again. I can use the basic engine; there’s nothing wrong with that. It will be a front-wheel-drive car. Restyled. Sleek. I’m flying to Turin to meet with Marco Varallo. I think he can design what I want: an American two-door, suitable for four people, not a sports car by any means but not a boxy family car either.”

  4

  Cindy urged him to stop in London on his way to Turin, to see his son—and Betsy.

  The toddler looked like a Perino. Pointing at Angelo, Betsy told him that this man was his daddy. The child seemed to understand and let Angelo hold him on his lap.

  Betsy insisted that little John know who his father was, from the beginning. The twelve-year-old Loren van Ludwige had been told, as had been little Sally, who was three.

  After the nanny took charge of the child, Betsy poured brandies, and she and Angelo stood together by the window that overlooked Regent’s Park. Betsy wore soft, well-faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt with no bra underneath.

  Cindy had written a letter to Betsy, telling her she knew that Angelo had fathered a child by her, telling her that she hoped they could be friends and that Betsy would bring little John to the States to see his grandparents while they were still alive. She assured Betsy they would be welcome in the house in Greenwich, where the little boy would be known to the Perino children as their half brother.

  “I’m grateful to Cindy,” said Betsy, “but it’s all a little to damned civilized to be believed.”

  “Cindy’s had an affair, too, at least one,” said Angelo.

  “Well, I have news for you,” said Betsy. “If you were planning to sleep with me tonight … I’m sorry.”

  “I am, too. I was looking forward to it.”

  “I have news,” she said. “I’m going to be married again. Within a month or two.”

  “Forgive me, but—”

  “Am I pregnant?” she interrupted. “No.”

  “Who’s the lucky man?”

  Betsy sighed. “Well, he’s not Angelo Perino. That’s the tragedy of my life, you know: that I couldn’t marry the man I loved—still love, will always love. I’m thirty-two years old, and I’ll never be able to marry that man. I’m a single woman with three children. I’m alone too much. I know my father is not alone in thinking I’m a hellion. But I’m not; I’m here with my kids most of the time.”

  “Who is the man, Betsy?”

  “A very decent man,” she said. “That condemns him, doesn’t it? He knows everything, including that I would leave him in an instant and come running to you if something happened to Cindy and you called me. Despite all that, he’s willing to help me raise my children.”

  “What’s his name? What does he do?”

  “His name is George Neville. Angelo, don’t laugh. He is George, Viscount Neville, and when I’m married to him I’ll be Viscountess Neville. His family is scandalized that he is marrying a divorced woman with two illegitimate children. They are less scandalized that he has an illegitimate child of his own. He’s a barrister, specializing in patent and copyright litigation. He’s four years older than I am. Angelo, he took me fishing in a stream in Scotland—just the kind of thing I love, as you can imagine—and during the afternoon, while I was clomping around in big rubber waders and trying to get the hang of casting, he came upon a friend of his and introduced me. I suspect it was arranged, but that doesn’t make any difference. His friend was Charles, Prince of Wales!”

  Angelo finished his brandy. “I hope he’ll make you happy.”

  “I can’t sit around waiting for you to show up once a month or once every two months. You’ll have to meet him. You have to come here and visit John as often as you can, and George will be here.”

  Angelo nodded.

  “I still love you, understand.”

  He kissed her. “I still love you, Betsy,” he said quietly.

  5

  He ate dinner with Betsy so he could stay in the flat and spend as much time as possible with his son. The little boy became fussy after he had eaten his own dinner, and the nanny took him away for his bath and bed.

  Conversation lagged over dinner. They had said all there was to say about loving each other. Angelo told her about the new plant and the new Stallion. She said she still drove her S Stallion and that everyone who saw it admired it. He didn’t tell her that Cindy found it unsafe and that he was worried about product-liability suits.

  He left her not long after eight, promising to stop in London on his way home from Turin.

  When he stopped for his key at Dukes Hotel, the clerk handed him a small, pale blue envelope with an embossed crest. “It was brought by messenger, sir. From the Savoy.”

  He didn’t open it until he was in his room. He guessed who had sent it, even though he did not recognize the crest. The note read—

  Quite by chance, I find myself in London on the occasion of your current visit. I know you will not be staying the night with Betsy. If you would like to share a drink and … whatever, telephone me at the Savoy. I will be in my suite after nine.

  Anne

  She waited for him in her suite at the Savoy. When he embraced and kissed her in the foyer, she was wearing a black jacquard chemise combining lace and sheer nylon. As before, she aroused him with her perfume: a subtle, clean scent that was in no way cloying. They sipped brandies, then went into the bedroom.

  He had never known a woman like her. Nothing disturbed her poise.

  First, she took out of her handbag a small vial of an essence, which she rubbed into herself before he put his tongue to her. It was a subtle flavoring, tasting something like brandy, though it contained little or no alcohol. It was a pleasant variation. Somewhere he had read—was it in Philip Roth?—that licking a woman’s cunt was like licking raw liver; you could do it, but it was difficult to say the taste was a pleasure. He was glad she had bought the brandy essence.

  She came twice. He knew only because she stiffened and closed her eyes. She did not moan.

  With consummate grace, she blotted her lipstick on a tissue, then lowered her face over him and began to stroke his penis with the tip of her tongue. She nibbled. She sucked. Watching her was like watching her eat a meal: with restraint and elegance. She manipulated him as she manipulated a knife and fork: coolly adroit, without a single awkward movement. He had never been sucked with such calm skill, and it was hugely erotic. When he came, the spasms were deep and violent. She received all he ejaculated into her mouth, then spit it into a wad of tissues—after which she used her tongue and lips to collect his last drops and wiped those off her lips, too.

  They sat before a fireplace that was cold but filled with two huge baskets of yellow flowers—both of them still naked, sipping brandy.

  “Once a year, Angelo?” she asked. “For me, it was worth the wait. You?”

  “More than worth it.”

  “Once a year is not enough.”

  “We’ll improve on that,” he said. “The necessity of being discreet is—”

  “A burden. But, as you say, a necessity. We have good marriages, I suppose. Still, these times with you are … memorable. Between them, I relive them in memory.”

  “So do I.”

  This was the first time he saw her light a cigarette. It was a Gauloise, a harsh unfiltered French cigarette, too strong for American tastes.

  “Igor says that putting XB Motors four hundred and seventy-five million dollars in debt is the most brilliant move you’ve ever made,” she said.

  “If we’re going to compete, we’ve got to modernize,” he said.

  “Of course. But that’s not what Igor has in mind. I received an offer for my stock. The offer was eight hundred and fifty dollars per share, which is a good deal more than the market price. I have no doubt the same offer was made to Betsy and Alicia, though neither of them has said so.”

  “It was made to Alicia,” he said. “I doubt it was made to Betsy. I think she would have told me. Of course, they didn’t make it to me.”

  “They’ve made it to Loren, obviously—and to the Hardeman Foundation. That’s the hazard. But two weeks ago they withdrew the offer.”

  “It’s what is known as the poison pill,” said Angelo. “When XB acquired a load of debt, it wasn’t worth nearly as much to the raiders.”

  Anne dropped the cigarette into a silent butler, closed the lid, and let it go out—having taken only three or four puffs. “For the moment, you’ve outfoxed them,” she said.

  “No. For the moment, I’m making the company do what it has to do if it is to go on competing in the automobile market. That the huge sum we’re borrowing is a poison pill is just an additional benefit.”

  “Angelo … Loren will sell. The foundation will sell. As much as I hated Number One, it troubles me deeply to see his company fall into the hands of people who want only to dismantle it and sell off the pieces for as much as they can get.”

  “He was a rotten old bastard,” said Angelo. “But I want his company to survive. For you and me and Cindy and Betsy and Alicia … and for Loren the Fourth. I’ve got more surprises waiting for the raiders.” His smile was deadly.

  XXIV

  1985

  1

  Angelo’s constant presence was required at the construction site where the new XB Motors plant was going up. Even though he was again a vice president with almost complete autonomy, he knew his explicit orders might not be carried out if he was not on the site personally supervising.

  On the days when he could not be there, Keijo Shigeto was on the site; but all he could do was report to Angelo if he saw anything wrong; no one would take orders from him.

  Angelo had leased a small Learjet to shuttle him and Keijo back and forth between Detroit City Airport and Westchester Airport, so he could always be on the construction site within a few hours of receiving a call from Keijo. Even so, the circumstances compelled Angelo to be away from home a great deal more than he wished or had intended. He’d arranged for the company to lease two suites in a Ramada Inn near the job, one for himself and one for Keijo. He spent more nights there than he wanted to.

  2

  The Perino children had become accustomed to the idea that their father was not an ordinary man who kept ordinary hours. For that matter, most of their friends’ fathers were out of the ordinary, too. Backcountry Greenwich was not a neighborhood of men and women who worked nine to five.

  John, who was almost thirteen, attended a private day school for boys. Anna was in a day school for girls. Morris, who was eight, was doing well and was happy in the nearby elementary school, where his sister Valerie was also enrolled. In the middle of a weekday, only two-year-old Mary was apt to be at home; and many afternoons she was playing at parks or walking on the beach with the au pair.

  As she’d said she should, Cindy began to spend more time in VKP Galleries.

  Marcus Lincicombe had come to exert a powerful new influence on the business. He had convinced Cindy that they should rent the second floor of the building that housed the gallery, install spiral steel staircases, and expand the scope of the gallery by acquiring new lines of art. Glass cases in one of the upstairs rooms displayed netsuke. Two other rooms displayed eighteenth-and nineteenth-century English genre paintings: horses especially but also barnyard and cottage scenes and scenes of squires hunting.

  “You don’t much like them, and I don’t much like them,” Marcus said to Cindy and Dietz, “but a significant segment of the public likes them—significant in the sense that they have the money to buy them. You see them in Greenwich homes, don’t you? You see them in Park Avenue apartments. The well-to-do feel comfortable with nice, sleek horses and the like. They are art, and everyone can recognize what they are. Besides, they’re more than a hundred years old.”

  “They’re boring,” said Cindy.

  “Now, now. Your tastes in art, Cindy, are so eclectic that I am sure you confuse most of the guests who come to your home. Most people don’t want to be confused, and they don’t want to be challenged.”

  He was right. The traditional paintings of hounds and horses sold well.

  An exhibit of works of the American Leica school—that is, more paintings as photographically realistic as Amanda Finch’s—didn’t sell as well.

  Amanda’s work continued to sell. It became apparent as the years passed that her appeal was in the straightforward eroticism of her realistic nudes. She hired more teenage models, always with their parents’ consent and almost always with a parent present when she painted. She hired a boy of sixteen and his sister who was twelve and painted them together in wholly innocent scenes of nude brother and sister playing innocent games like checkers and Monopoly. With no explanation as to why a preadolescent girl and an adolescent boy were playing board games naked, the paintings inspired speculation and sold quickly and for high prices. Cindy understood that Amanda had developed a sense of what sold. She painted what sold, and if that was abandoning artistic freedom for money, Amanda did not mind. She was mildly sensational, and she accepted that.