Tycoon by Harold Robbins Read Free Book Online Page B

you.”
    â€œI’m off about half the invitation lists in town.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œAbsolutely. In Boston society, divorce is still a major scandal.”
    â€œEven if the bastard beat you.”
    â€œEven if the bastard beat me. Listen. My family tried to talk me out of the divorce. My lawyer tried to talk me out of it. The judge tried to talk me out of it. They all said any husband is better than no husband.”
    Betsy was a comely blond woman of maybe thirty-two or -three, but she was not nearly as beautiful as Kimberly. Her nose was a little too long and sharp, her mouth was a little too wide and toothy. What Jack found most attractive about her was her air of comfortable self-esteem.
    â€œI’m sorry, Betsy,” he said earnestly. “I’ll make a point of getting together with you as soon as I can.”
    â€œMake it soon.” She spoke in a very low voice because she had noticed Kimberly approaching. “Any woman who’s ever had a feel of the Lear cock wants another feel.”
    A moment later Kimberly was beside them.
    â€œI see you two have met.”
    Jack nodded. “And she’s already invited me to call her Betsy.”
    Kimberly pretended not to notice Jack’s catty comment. “I know you’re something of an expert on chinoiserie, Betsy,” she said. “Have you noticed my new highboy? I’d like your honest opinion.”
    â€œJack . . . ?” Betsy asked.
    Kimberly grinned. “My husband wouldn’t know chinoiserie from Duncan Phyfe. It’s something I’ve got to teach him. Maybe you can help.”
    Betsy looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “I’ll be glad to try,” she said.
    Dan Horan was an easy man to get to know. A good deal older than his wife, Kimberly’s friend Connie, Dan was a big, bluff man, overweight but still hard-muscled and athletic. He had curly dark hair and wore gold-framed eyeglasses. He had no reason to go to any special effort to make friends, yet he seemed to seek them assiduously, like a bibliophile who collected books he did not read.
    â€œI congratulate you on the house,” he said to Jack. “To be able to snatch one up here—”
    â€œYou watch for opportunities.”
    â€œWell, you found one. And Kimberly has done a hell of a job on it!”
    â€œI need a drink,” said Jack. “Bar?”
    Kimberly had hired two maids for the evening, to wander through the house in short, flared black skirts, with white aprons and caps; but on their trays they carried only glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The cook, an Irishwoman of formidable proportions, had proved a knowledgeable bartender and was serving in that capacity behind a table set up in the library.
    â€œConnie tells me you’re going to buy WHFD in Hartford.”
    â€œSo Kimberly has told Connie, and so she tells me. I haven’t decided yet. Kimberly wants it because it broadcasts only classical music. She’s a little embarrassed by WCHS.”
    â€œIt’s the most interesting station in Boston,” said Dan Horan.
    Jack laughed. “Thanks for the careful choice of words. It’s also the most profitable, according to the latest numbers.”
    They walked away from the bar with their drinks, and in the foyer between the library and the living room they came across Kimberly and Connie.
    Jack had decided that Constance Horan was the only woman he had ever seen who rivaled Kimberly in grace and beauty. But her style was completely different. She was taller than Kimberly, had long sleek legs, and was blond. Her mouth was softer, but she hardened it with cold-red lipstick. The chief difference between the two women was that Connie carried herself with a defiant dignity that bordered on arrogance.
    She was also a superior bridge player. She and Jack were sometimes matched as partners because they made a formidable team.
    Tonight she was wearing a