Good Sister, The by Diana Diamond Read Free Book Online Page B

intention of bailing out a competitor.
    “There will be two yachts,” Catherine told Jennifer the next morning. “Please, you’ve got to work one of them. I can’t do it all.”
    “Sure, no sweat,” Jennifer said instantly.
    Catherine couldn’t believe her ears.
    The yachts were side by side, sterns to the pier in a Mediterranean moor, long curved shapes of seamless white steel. One was 160 feet long, the size of some naval vessels. The other, at 110 feet, was a modest yacht in the local competition. They were European designs, styled more like the wind than in the tradition of North Atlantic working boats. Their interiors combined teak and stainless steel in vistas that were both seafaring and landlocked, nautical adaptations of ancient baronial castles. The only things familiar to the Hollywood types who elbowed their way aboard were the well-stocked bars and the smiling faces of their peers. All of them were looking for profitable marks that they might corner against a railing.
    The starlets were out in see-under, see-over, and see-through costumes better suited for the lineup in a bordello. Bankers in double-breasted blazers carefully scrutinized them. Producers tended to more casual dress, white slacks with Italian sports shirts, and a variety of precious chains. The screen owners were in shorts with dress socks halfway up their calves. Established stars were less predictable. Ladies were in low-cut pants with a variety of revealing tops. Naval hardware was everywhere. The men went in dozens of directions, some even clanging about the decks in cowboy boots.
    Catherine was at the head of one gangway, sharing a personal
recollection with each arriving guest. She wore navy slacks and an imitation officer’s jacket with gold stripes on the sleeves. A single brass button closed the jacket over her bare cleavage, giving the impression that she had nothing on underneath. The paparazzi swarmed around her like worker bees. Jennifer was on the other gangway, smiling hellos at faces that she could only vaguely remember. She wore fitted jeans and a light sleeveless sweater, simple, tasteful, but hardly memorable. Fortunately, waiters with trays of beluga were positioned on deck, so no one took time to study her appearance.
    Padraig O’Connell appeared on the dock with a willowy, bored-looking model. He studied the two ships for a few moments and then made his way up the gangway toward Jennifer. “Eight bells, on the fantail,” he said to her as he shook her hand.
    “Eight bells,” she answered.
    The yachts tooted whistle signals to each other, took in their lines, and slipped out to sea. On the decks, cocktails were flowing, and the bands struck up their dance beats. For the moment, the Chinese movie was forgotten, and the young woman who had made the fashion breakthrough was yesterday’s news. For at least this evening, Pegasus Satellite Services was the star of the festival.
    Catherine worked the crowd with the confidence that only a billion-dollar trust fund can bring. She managed to be more conservative than the bankers, more daring than the producers, and more glamorous than the actors. The bankers whispered to one another, wondering about her financial connections, while the fashion designers wondered what she really was wearing under her officer’s jacket. In a photo with Robert Redford, she managed to make him look short. Julia Roberts was a skinny child beside her, and the headman at Miramax was simply fat and bald. But despite her gleaming smiles and her constant tinkle of laughter, Catherine’s small talk was deadly serious and precisely attuned. Electronic communications would remake the entire industry. She and her company were the future.
    As always, she managed to project the undercurrent of promise
about a romantic future. No list of the world’s most eligible heiresses was complete without her picture, which was generally the most provocative on the page. The Norwegian princess was tall, thin, and