and there was no argument. Elisabeth was thirty-two now, she had a residency on the Strip and a loving, committed relationship, but still he had the power to make her feel like a bullied little girl.
Robert called something from the bedroom.
‘What?’ Elisabeth yelled over the rush of water. She ran a gloop of shampoo through her blonde hair.
The door slid open. ‘I said: Any ideas?’ He stepped in behind her. ‘Bernstein couldn’t keep a secret from you if he tried.’
‘None whatsoever,’ Elisabeth said primly. ‘It’s probably another attempt to hurry the wedding along. I wish he’d butt out. Just because he introduced us doesn’t give him carte blanche to interfere in every aspect of our lives.’
Robert knew not to press his fiancée on the sensitive subject of her father.
‘Come on,’ he said instead, helping her rinse her hair, ‘or we’ll be late.’
The Orient Hotel, Robert St Louis’s multi-billion-dollar baby and the heart of his hotel empire, was a breathtaking project. He and Elisabeth arrived an hour later in a blacked-out car, the main attractions at tonight’s charity gala event.
Two soaring towers, each peak like a closed flower, flanked a colossal central pagoda. Little square windows lit with gold travelled up as far as the eye could see, thousands of feet into the sky, until they became stars themselves. Dragons crouched at the entrance, fire screaming from their open mouths. Sparking fountains and flaming torches circled the majestic structure.
Robert’s doorman greeted them like royalty. ‘Good evening, boss.’ He dipped his head, always nervous when the top gun was in the house. ‘Ms Sabell.’
Elisabeth nodded.
‘Evening, Daniel.’ Robert knew every last one of the Orient’s staff–he had hired them all personally, from pit boss to restroom cleaner. ‘How many for the gala?’
‘Six hundred. They’re waiting for you both in the Lantern Suite.’
Robert checked his watch. ‘Frank Bernstein here yet?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Make the most of it,’ Elisabeth muttered drily as they stepped into the foyer.
Robert chuckled. ‘Come on, he’s not so bad.’
Elisabeth loved the Orient. It was, in her opinion, the greatest hotel in the city. She’d grown up on the Strip, knew them all like the back of her hand, but the Orient was special, it was different. Huge china urns, big as cars, squatted in the five corners of the pentagonal lobby, overflowing with jade stalks and huge leaves sprayed in gold. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls beneath glowing red paper lamps. Below, the marble of the floor gleamed clear as water, like standing on the surface of a silver pool, so that your reflection made it difficult to tell which way was up and which was down. It thrilled Elisabeth to know that soon, once she and Robert were married, she would be its queen.
They swept past Reception to the waiting elevator. As they rose to the sixteenth floor, Robert took her hand.
‘I’m proud you’re on my arm,’ he told her.
‘You’re on mine, St Louis.’ She winked as they alighted.
At news of the couple’s arrival, a reverential hush fell over the assembled investors and Vegas notables. Jowly men with ruddy cheeks and fat wallets stood next to their glamorous wives, whose priceless gems dripped from their fragrant, powdered skin.
The women watched enviously as Elisabeth let the fur drop from her shoulders, revealing a glittering kingfisher-blue gown that matched her eyes. Every last one of them wanted Robert St Louis and, seeing Elisabeth now, understood why they never would.
Her fiancé took easily to the floor. ‘I’m pleased to see so many of you here,’ he said, clapping his hands together and approaching the waiting lectern. ‘It’s a special night. The Orient has been working closely with the causes here this evening …’
Elisabeth smiled, quietly greeting one of the wives with a brief air kiss.
As she watched Robert, she felt powerful. No longer was she merely Frank Bernstein’s daughter: she was part of a team that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, a team that would lay the foundations of a new Vegas dynasty. This was hers alone–she didn’t have to involve her father at all.
Nothing could come between her and Robert.
If ever it did, she would fight it to the death.
3
London
Chloe French held her expression as she reclined on the leopard-print chaise longue and followed the photographer’s instructions.
‘That’s gorgeous,’ he told her, clicking away. ‘Anyone ever told you you’ve got the face of an angel?’
They had, actually. At nineteen Chloe French was the sweetheart of London’s fashion circuit–a raw, unaffected beauty and a fledgling star on her way to the top.