Betrayals by Carla Neggers Page A

of sight. “Damn you to hell, Jean-Paul,” she said, turning back to her silent, empty house, “why aren’t you dead?”

Eleven
    A lthough Sofi Mencini’s apartment in a renovated stone building on the waterfront was decorated in warm pastels and simple lines, it was as spectacular as any in Boston. Various furnishings were handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, custom-made, not because Sofi sought to be different or special, but because she knew exactly what she wanted. The effect, especially combined with the stunning harbor views, was both welcoming and awe-inspiring. A visitor knew at once that this was a successful woman with power, compassion, intelligence and humor. Rebecca wouldn’t have wanted to get rich with anyone else.
    “I had to cancel a meeting,” Sofi said when she greeted her ex-roommate at the door. “Dare I ask what this is all about?”
    “Not if you’re smart.”
    Sofi digested that remark and could tell at once Rebecca wasn’t kidding. “David’s in the kitchen.”
    David Rubin was a curly-haired redhead in his midforties. He loved to flirt with Sofi—and, thirty seconds after meeting her, with Rebecca—but he was totally committed to his wife and their five children. Together they ran ajewelry store at Copley Place. They’d sold Sofi and her fiancé, Hank—a game-creator, ace puzzle-builder and as one-of-a-kind as everything else in her life—their wedding rings. A rumpled, cheerful man, David always seemed to have baby spit-up on his tie or the odd piece of Lego in his pockets. When it came to gems, however, he was very serious and very, very careful.
    He examined Rebecca’s stones for more than an hour.
    Sofi and Rebecca drank iced herbal tea on Sofi’s balcony while they waited. David had tried to get them to go back to the store, where he had all his equipment and reference materials, but Rebecca refused. She felt uneasy enough as it was showing the stones to him and Sofi, possibly jeopardizing their safety. Accepting defeat, David did make several cryptic calls to his wife to verify information.
    “I’m not going to ask questions you’re not going to answer,” Sofi said.
    “Good.”
    Rebecca sipped her tea, feeling Sofi’s penetrating executive’s glare. Not much over five feet, Sofi had transcended the stereotype of small women as vulnerable and weak-willed with her strength of character and high expectations of herself and those around her. Reliable, creative and direct, she thrived on the challenges of corporate life, and was good at what she did.
    On the other hand, Rebecca thrived on change and taking risks with her money and her talent. She regularly drove her financial advisors in New York crazy. One had told her he’d be happy if she’d just make up her mind whether she was going to live like a rich person—she did occasionally—or a “Cinderella who can’t decide if she’d rather have a coach or a pumpkin to ride around in.” She had totally frustrated him by laughing. Later she’d discovered she’d been driving them all crazy and they’d decided to draw straws for who got to vent his spleen to her. He’d been the lucky winner. It wasn’t business at all, he’d explained: Rebecca was on top of every penny she had and every penny she’d ever spent. It was, he admitted, just personal. Did he want out? Oh, no, working for her gave him great material for breaking the ice at parties.
    “You get a copy of The Score? ” Sofi asked.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Jared’s still good-looking, isn’t he?”
    Rebecca sipped her tea. Despite Jared’s failings, Sofi had always chastised Rebecca for letting Jared Sloan go. “You have unrealistic standards, R.J.,” she was fond of saying.
    “I think you should call him,” Sofi suggested bluntly. “Sharing the front page of a supermarket tabloid gives you a good excuse.”
    “I don’t need an excuse.”
    “Then how come you’ve waited fourteen years?”
    “Sofi.”
    She waved her tea glass. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but