anyway—sweet, fat Fiona had looked positively excited when the men switched seats during dessert. He’d be much better off with her.
Pulling the mountain of blankets up to her chin as their sheer weight finally began to generate some warmth, she let her thoughts drift to Nancy and New York. She imagined the sales at Bergdorf Goodman and Barney’s and started to fantasize about stocking up on cut-rate Marc Jacobs and the late dinners they’d have together at the 21 Lounge. But then her mind turned involuntarily to Yakutia and the terrible stories she’d heard on the radio yesterday about the conditions in the O’Donnell mines, and she felt a sharp stab of guilt. How could she be so shallow, thinking about shoes and sweaters and cocktails, when she knew what those poor men were going through? How could she waste so much mental energy on pointless arguments with her family when she knew firsthand about so much genuine suffering in this world? And particularly in
her
world, the diamond business.
Ignoring her mother’s house rules, she pulled back the covers to allow a whining, shivering Boxford into bed beside her. Cocooned in their combined body heat, she fell into a fitful sleep, peppered with dreams of salmon fishing, Madison Avenue, and the tyrannical, smiling face of Brogan James O’Donnell.
CHAPTER FOUR
B ROGAN O’D ONNELL PUT his head back and smiled contentedly as the girl beneath his desk began unzipping his fly.
His office was on the thirty-third—penthouse—floor of an all-glass block on Wall Street, with breathtaking views across the water to Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and beyond. Today the city had been transformed into a magical snowscape, an urban Narnia sparkling beneath a clear, lapis-blue January sky. Gazing out his floor-to-ceiling window, Brogan felt like the emperor of a great kingdom, surveying his lands. Life didn’t get a whole lot better than this.
“Slower,” he murmured, reaching down and entwining his fingers in the girl’s hair so he could pull her head back and forward in the rhythm that he wanted. She was one of Premiere New York’s more recent signings, a Ukrainian redhead with legs like a camel and a quirky, striking face most notable for its full, wide mouth, an oral replica of the Lincoln Tunnel. Since founding the modeling agency as a sideline business eight years ago, Brogan had consistently used it as a private brothel, taking girls for himself when he wanted to and occasionally offering them to friends and business associates who had earned his particular favor. There was always the odd girl who refused his advances. Most model bosses would have fired them, but Brogan hadlearned long ago that it paid to keep one’s friends close and enemies closer, and never doled out retribution. There were plenty of new girls willing to oblige him, many of them from backgrounds of desperate poverty, like Dascha. From the skillful, enthusiastic way she was working her tongue up and down his cock now, cupping his balls in her hands as she licked and sucked, it was clear she was no novice at pleasuring her bosses, or any man who might be able to offer her some advancement.
“Oh, God that’s good,” he moaned, slowing her pace still further to try to prolong his enjoyment. Aware that he was dangerously close to coming, he tried to turn his mind to other things, like tonight’s big party at the new Tiffany store on Madison Avenue. All the great and the good of the diamond fraternity would be there—dealers, cutters, designers, independent mine owners like him, and of course the cartels. Privately, Brogan found these sorts of events rather a bore. He was always getting collared by some diamond-crazed crone or other hoping to cut a private deal, or by journalists asking tiresome questions about conditions in his mines. But he had to go tonight. One of the top De Beers executives was in town, and however successful one became in the diamond business, one could never
Pulling the mountain of blankets up to her chin as their sheer weight finally began to generate some warmth, she let her thoughts drift to Nancy and New York. She imagined the sales at Bergdorf Goodman and Barney’s and started to fantasize about stocking up on cut-rate Marc Jacobs and the late dinners they’d have together at the 21 Lounge. But then her mind turned involuntarily to Yakutia and the terrible stories she’d heard on the radio yesterday about the conditions in the O’Donnell mines, and she felt a sharp stab of guilt. How could she be so shallow, thinking about shoes and sweaters and cocktails, when she knew what those poor men were going through? How could she waste so much mental energy on pointless arguments with her family when she knew firsthand about so much genuine suffering in this world? And particularly in
her
world, the diamond business.
Ignoring her mother’s house rules, she pulled back the covers to allow a whining, shivering Boxford into bed beside her. Cocooned in their combined body heat, she fell into a fitful sleep, peppered with dreams of salmon fishing, Madison Avenue, and the tyrannical, smiling face of Brogan James O’Donnell.
CHAPTER FOUR
B ROGAN O’D ONNELL PUT his head back and smiled contentedly as the girl beneath his desk began unzipping his fly.
His office was on the thirty-third—penthouse—floor of an all-glass block on Wall Street, with breathtaking views across the water to Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty, and beyond. Today the city had been transformed into a magical snowscape, an urban Narnia sparkling beneath a clear, lapis-blue January sky. Gazing out his floor-to-ceiling window, Brogan felt like the emperor of a great kingdom, surveying his lands. Life didn’t get a whole lot better than this.
“Slower,” he murmured, reaching down and entwining his fingers in the girl’s hair so he could pull her head back and forward in the rhythm that he wanted. She was one of Premiere New York’s more recent signings, a Ukrainian redhead with legs like a camel and a quirky, striking face most notable for its full, wide mouth, an oral replica of the Lincoln Tunnel. Since founding the modeling agency as a sideline business eight years ago, Brogan had consistently used it as a private brothel, taking girls for himself when he wanted to and occasionally offering them to friends and business associates who had earned his particular favor. There was always the odd girl who refused his advances. Most model bosses would have fired them, but Brogan hadlearned long ago that it paid to keep one’s friends close and enemies closer, and never doled out retribution. There were plenty of new girls willing to oblige him, many of them from backgrounds of desperate poverty, like Dascha. From the skillful, enthusiastic way she was working her tongue up and down his cock now, cupping his balls in her hands as she licked and sucked, it was clear she was no novice at pleasuring her bosses, or any man who might be able to offer her some advancement.
“Oh, God that’s good,” he moaned, slowing her pace still further to try to prolong his enjoyment. Aware that he was dangerously close to coming, he tried to turn his mind to other things, like tonight’s big party at the new Tiffany store on Madison Avenue. All the great and the good of the diamond fraternity would be there—dealers, cutters, designers, independent mine owners like him, and of course the cartels. Privately, Brogan found these sorts of events rather a bore. He was always getting collared by some diamond-crazed crone or other hoping to cut a private deal, or by journalists asking tiresome questions about conditions in his mines. But he had to go tonight. One of the top De Beers executives was in town, and however successful one became in the diamond business, one could never
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