Two down - By Nero Blanc Page 0,2

going to knock their socks off, Jamaica!”

Compliments came easily to Edison Pepper, or “Tom,” as he was known to both the elite and humble of the city of Newcastle. Late forties with an athletic six-foot-four frame, eyes the color of sun-spattered steel, and perfectly tousled graying hair, Pepper had risen from humble origins to become a phenomenally successful investment banker whose newest venture, Global Outreach and Lender Development Fund, was proving an extraordinary boon to Newcastle’s not-for-profit institutions.

Investing their endowment capital with the G.O.L.D. Fund permitted the organizations an enormous return on their money. Everyone from the local historical society to the hospital’s new multimillion-dollar children’s wing was benefiting handily. With his easy charm and manicured good looks—accentuated this evening by a hand-tailored dinner jacket, watered-silk bow tie, and hefty diamond studs—Edison “Tom” Pepper, was Newcastle’s hero.

“It’s hard to believe you could look more lovely in person than you did on the set of Crescent Heights, but it’s true. You’re making my knees knock.” Tom gave Jamaica a light kiss on the cheek and again called upstairs to his wife, “Genie, Jamaica won the battle . . . I’m off to the conservatory to fetch that bottle of champagne.” He glanced at Jamaica. The smile he gave her was dazzling. “Why not? My driver is chauffeuring us tonight.”

Genie entered the living room at the precise moment Tom was exiting. Although she was easily five years younger than Jamaica, it took only one glance at Tom to make her realize how potent were her friend’s charms. “Two Peppers and one Nevisson, as per your request, sire,” Genie said as she tossed her lithe body on a Sheraton sofa whose gold satin upholstery matched the color of her ball gown. Then she raised her voice and called toward the conservatory: “And I defy you to say I’m late.”

“I didn’t want us to miss the champagne,” her husband’s distant words replied.

“Thanks to your careful advance planning, we won’t.”

“Let’s make this a festive affair, Genie,” he called back. “Please.”

The tone had a finality that made Genie grimace—a reaction she tried to hide by adding a quick, dismissive laugh. “I was going to say that if you don’t walk away with a husband tonight, the men in this city need to have their heads examined . . . but now I’m not so certain a stuffy Yankee spouse is what you need.”

“Who said I was in the market for a mate?”

“Ah, ‘my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?’ ” Genie laughed more freely, all tension suddenly gone. “You were marvelous as Beatrice in Much Ado . . . When was that? Three years ago? Four?”

Jamaica sidestepped the issue of years, instead answering with an airy: “ ‘Done to death by slanderous tongues . . . ’ ”

“That’s not true! You got fabulous reviews. Even in New York.”

“And you, Genevieve, should never have left the stage.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but that was a long, long time ago.”

Jamaica forced a smile. “Don’t remind me . . . A youthful summer playing everything from Shakespeare to O’Neill—”

“And who was always cast as a lead?”

“Supporting players are just as important as the show’s star.”

Genie grinned. “But they don’t get offers from Hollywood studios . . . Anyway, you look absolutely stunning. I wish I could get away with wearing risqué evening gowns, but Tom is always harping about ‘appropriate dress’ . . . I’m afraid I’m in serious danger of becoming a dowdy old wife.”

Jamaica managed another thin smile. “You, old? Never.”

“Next year, I’ll be pushing forty.”

“My heart bleeds.”

The explosive sound of the champagne cork interrupted them.

“The dowdy woman’s husband doth call,” Jamaica said.

“I’m so glad you decided to leave L.A.,” Genie answered as they crossed the marble foyer to join Tom. Their high satin heels clicked over the polished stone. “. . . happy you called us . . .”

“I didn’t realize how much I needed to escape until Tom picked me up at the airport yesterday. I feel as if I’ve been granted a reprieve . . . And I’m so looking forward to leaving for Nantucket tomorrow . . . A week of total privacy . . . Promise me you’ll never mention Hollywood.”

“I promise.”

“Or Beverly Hills . . . or Wilshire Boulevard—or Catalina Island!”

“I swear!” Genie was beaming. “Scout’s honor.” Then she changed tack by focusing on the planned cruise. Her demeanor became all business. “Of course, I would have preferred to take my own boat, but it’s been stripped to the bones for