The Secret Heiress by Judith Gould Read Free Book Online Page A

Adrian had thought that Nikos had lost his mind. He was convinced that Nikos had suffered one of his spells of madness. He thought Nikos would come to his senses and eventually change his mind. But he didn’t. Nikos had always thought Niki was the daughter to be groomed to lead the company. Adrian and Nikos had argued about it many times over the years. Finally, Nikos himself had moved Ariadne to the United States just in case he’d made the wrong decision regarding Niki.
    Adrian heaved another sigh. He had always thought he would eventually be able to talk Nikos into letting Ariadne claim her heritage, but that was not to be. Nikos had died without permitting it. Maybe it’s time to pay a visit to Ariadne and see if she can’t replace her sister, he thought. Of the twin sisters, he no longer had any question which one was the bad seed.

Chapter Four

    New York City
     
     
     
     
    T he photographer’s studio was in an enormous eighth-floor loft in the Flatiron District, between Fifth Avenue and Avenue of the Americas. The dingy turn-of-the-century structure didn’t give a hint that some of America’s most compelling images were created within its confines. The loft of Greg Lichtenstein, the much-in-demand fashion photographer, was reached by a dark, creaky freight elevator that could hold twenty-five or thirty people with ease. Its spaciousness did little to dispel its cell-like creepiness, but when its door opened and newcomers stepped from the ancient bobbing car into Greg’s loft, they were swept away by the futuristic atmosphere that greeted them.
    In the spacious entry room thousands of square feet of flooring rescued from bowling alleys that were about to meet the wrecker’s ball had been laid and several coats of polyurethane gave it a high gloss. The high walls and ceiling had all been painted in a photographer’s white, and on them hung an assortment of Greg’s most famous images, most of them published in high-fashion magazines all over the world. The reception room was lined with black leather-upholstered banquettes, where one could wait for an appointment in comfort, leafing through choice magazines placed on the black marble-topped end tables and coffee table. In the center of the room was the receptionist’s desk, an enormous black marble slab on which an orchid sprouted dozens of white blossoms.
    The receptionist complemented the environment, being totally clad in black down to her stiletto-heeled shoes. Even her straight, orange-dyed hair, cut near her shoulders in an even line repeated in the bangs across her forehead, fitted the picture. She commandeered the busy ultramodern BeoCom multiline telephone with as much ease as she handled the keyboard accompanying the large flat-panel computer screen on the desk, even though she had long chocolate-colored fingernails that shone with new varnish.
    When Bianca Coveri rushed into the reception area, she ignored the veneer of glamour. Nor was she surprised to hear the loud hip-hop music playing on the studio’s powerful stereo system. She had been here many times because she ran PPHL’s garment subsidiaries. One of their expensive designer clothing labels was photographed here, and Bianca was frequently on hand to make certain that PPHL got what they wanted—and dearly paid for. Today’s shoot was part of a multimillion-dollar ad blitz, and Bianca wanted to assure herself that every detail was as she wanted it. Today, she also had another reason for being here: she’d taken an interest in one of the models.
    “Hey, Merilee,” she said to the receptionist in a breathy voice. “I’m late. How long have they been shooting?” She unknotted the black cashmere scarf at her throat and left it dangling loose, then shrugged out of the black feathered-mink coat she was wearing and put it around her shoulders. She swept her shoulder-length jet-black hair back away from her face, then let it remain where it fell.
    “They’ve barely started,” the