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Authors: Sheri Anderson
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road, but it was getting increasingly more difficult. The car swayed, and Charley had to steady the wheel.
“Mummy, pull over and let me drive,” Charley insisted. She was feeling absolutely fine. If it was bad caviar, it certainly hadn’t affected her.
“No, silly, I’m—” Olivia’s voice was barely a whisper.
By now the car was beginning to swerve badly. Although they were on the treacherous Route de la Grande Corniche, Olivia was able to keep it under control.
Then a bicyclist appeared as if out of nowhere and stopped directly in their path. There was no way to avoid hitting him.
“Mummy!” Charley screamed.
The timing couldn’t have been worse, as Olivia passed out, releasing the steering wheel from her grip.
Horrified, Charley grabbed the wheel with one hand and yanked it to the right to avoid hitting the bicyclist, while desperately trying to steady her mother with the other.
She missed him within inches, but the car slammed into the side railing.
It didn’t stop them, however. Because of their speed, the DBS smashed the guardrail to bits and went airborne.
A streak of bright yellow, Charley’s piercing scream, and the sound of splintering trees caught the attention of the tourists below as the gleaming Aston Martin plummeted to the street.
To those watching in shock, it was as if it were all happeningin slow motion.
The car hit the pavement on the driver’s side, then rolled twice before it landed upright.
A light hissing sound emanated from the engine. Then silence.
Charley was groggy in the passenger seat, strapped in and bleeding badly from a gash in her neck. She groaned softly and reached for her mother.
The driver’s seat was empty. Olivia had been thrown from the car.
Charley slumped back in her seat as she lost consciousness.
Lying on the side of the road, twenty feet away, was Olivia. Her soft, shimmering, lemonade-colored dress was splattered with blood, and there was no sign of her breathing. The side of her beautifully sculpted face was crushed in.
She had died on impact.
O NCE ON THE MAIN DECK OF K , S ERGE K ASAGIAN’S MEGAYACHT , guests were escorted to the first upper deck by white-mini-skirted waitresses and tanned shirtless waiters. With guests from all over the world, the waitstaff had been scrupulously vetted. Virtually every language was covered, so every guest would be royally taken care of.
Since no paparazzi were allowed on the ship, the blinding flash of cameras ceased once the guests made it inside—Richie Gaines among them.
Amid the gaggle of Euro-trash tweens, paid famous faces, and sycophant business associates, Serge made his way to Richie immediately and personally escorted him to the first of dozens of bars that peppered all three decks of the ship. With fifty bartenders, there was one for every six guests.
Cristal champagne flowed freely, as did the most expensive liquors in the world. Evan Williams bourbon, 1926 Macallan Fine and Rare scotch. For those who favored beer, one-hundred-dollar bottles of Sam Adams Utopia were on ice. For those who sipped cognac, they were offered Louis XIII Black Pearl.
“Your wish is her command,” Serge said to Richie as he nodded to the blonde, well-endowed teenage bartender. The bar was lined with the finest crystal, including colorful Murano Carlo Moretti flutes.
“Vodka martini, straight up,” Richie requested.
Serge nodded, and the seventeen-year-old retrieved a four-thousand-dollar bottle of Diva. Richie appreciated that. Each bottle contained real gemstones like the hidden jewels in Olivia’s early designs.
She poured the liquid platinum into a silver shaker, chilling it to perfection.
“Sorry about all those cameras out there,” Serge offered.
“I’ll bill you if I need new glasses,” Richie joked.
“Damn Fortunatov,” Serge growled. “Did you hear about the Elite ? That so-called boat has lasers that shoot right back in paparazzi’s lenses. No one can get a good shot!”
Richie took the
“Mummy, pull over and let me drive,” Charley insisted. She was feeling absolutely fine. If it was bad caviar, it certainly hadn’t affected her.
“No, silly, I’m—” Olivia’s voice was barely a whisper.
By now the car was beginning to swerve badly. Although they were on the treacherous Route de la Grande Corniche, Olivia was able to keep it under control.
Then a bicyclist appeared as if out of nowhere and stopped directly in their path. There was no way to avoid hitting him.
“Mummy!” Charley screamed.
The timing couldn’t have been worse, as Olivia passed out, releasing the steering wheel from her grip.
Horrified, Charley grabbed the wheel with one hand and yanked it to the right to avoid hitting the bicyclist, while desperately trying to steady her mother with the other.
She missed him within inches, but the car slammed into the side railing.
It didn’t stop them, however. Because of their speed, the DBS smashed the guardrail to bits and went airborne.
A streak of bright yellow, Charley’s piercing scream, and the sound of splintering trees caught the attention of the tourists below as the gleaming Aston Martin plummeted to the street.
To those watching in shock, it was as if it were all happeningin slow motion.
The car hit the pavement on the driver’s side, then rolled twice before it landed upright.
A light hissing sound emanated from the engine. Then silence.
Charley was groggy in the passenger seat, strapped in and bleeding badly from a gash in her neck. She groaned softly and reached for her mother.
The driver’s seat was empty. Olivia had been thrown from the car.
Charley slumped back in her seat as she lost consciousness.
Lying on the side of the road, twenty feet away, was Olivia. Her soft, shimmering, lemonade-colored dress was splattered with blood, and there was no sign of her breathing. The side of her beautifully sculpted face was crushed in.
She had died on impact.
O NCE ON THE MAIN DECK OF K , S ERGE K ASAGIAN’S MEGAYACHT , guests were escorted to the first upper deck by white-mini-skirted waitresses and tanned shirtless waiters. With guests from all over the world, the waitstaff had been scrupulously vetted. Virtually every language was covered, so every guest would be royally taken care of.
Since no paparazzi were allowed on the ship, the blinding flash of cameras ceased once the guests made it inside—Richie Gaines among them.
Amid the gaggle of Euro-trash tweens, paid famous faces, and sycophant business associates, Serge made his way to Richie immediately and personally escorted him to the first of dozens of bars that peppered all three decks of the ship. With fifty bartenders, there was one for every six guests.
Cristal champagne flowed freely, as did the most expensive liquors in the world. Evan Williams bourbon, 1926 Macallan Fine and Rare scotch. For those who favored beer, one-hundred-dollar bottles of Sam Adams Utopia were on ice. For those who sipped cognac, they were offered Louis XIII Black Pearl.
“Your wish is her command,” Serge said to Richie as he nodded to the blonde, well-endowed teenage bartender. The bar was lined with the finest crystal, including colorful Murano Carlo Moretti flutes.
“Vodka martini, straight up,” Richie requested.
Serge nodded, and the seventeen-year-old retrieved a four-thousand-dollar bottle of Diva. Richie appreciated that. Each bottle contained real gemstones like the hidden jewels in Olivia’s early designs.
She poured the liquid platinum into a silver shaker, chilling it to perfection.
“Sorry about all those cameras out there,” Serge offered.
“I’ll bill you if I need new glasses,” Richie joked.
“Damn Fortunatov,” Serge growled. “Did you hear about the Elite ? That so-called boat has lasers that shoot right back in paparazzi’s lenses. No one can get a good shot!”
Richie took the
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