The international bestseller! The book beaches were made for!
When New York billionaire Adam Gold moves to London, every red-blooded woman wants to get him into bed...and down the aisle.
Karin is a successful fashion entrepreneur and London's most glamorous socialite. Her name is synonymous with style and class, and Adam Gold could be her perfect accessory -- but can the whispers surrounding her ex-husband's death keep her from her prize?
Erin, a young, naïve country girl with literary aspirations, never dreamed of traveling in such lofty social circles until she finds herself in the role of Adam's personal assistant and protégé. As her sights grow higher, the promise of riches, and lust for her handsome boss, threaten everything she once valued.
Molly, a fading eighties supermodel, can't seem to leave her glory days, or her expensive drug habit, in the past. Ultracompetitive, unabashedly ruthless, Molly will risk everything to secure the man who may be her last chance at marriage.
Summer, Molly's daughter, is an innocent beauty living in the shadow of her famous mother. When she lands a television deal and becomes the latest "it girl," Adam Gold takes notice.
From Monte Carlo to Lake Como, St. Moritz to St. Barts, Gold Diggers takes a heady journey through the social circuit of the superrich into a world of sizzling passion, ruthless ambition and scorching betrayal.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Tasmina Perry is a former attorney who gave up a career in law to move into the more glamorous world of women's magazine journalism. She has written on celebrity and style for many magazines, including Marie Claire and Glamour, and most recently was deputy editor in chief of In Style (UK). She lives in London with her husband and son.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
The 175-foot superyacht Zeus bobbed silently in Turkbuku Bay, the recently anointed St. Tropez of Turkey's Turquoise Coast. The night sky seamlessly blended into the oily-black waters of the Aegean Sea, wrapping the spectacular yacht in a cloak of darkness. A ghostly hush had fallen on the decks. Everyone on board had gone to beach clubs after dinner several hours ago, with only the crew playing cards belowdecks and enjoying an evening off from their demanding guests. All the guests except one. Sebastian Edward Cavendish, Old Etonian, minor aristocrat and owner of Cavendish Gallery, the most prestigious photographic gallery in London, sat in the Zeus's smartest stateroom feeling as if his whole life was unraveling. Not even the luxury of the cabin, with its walnut-paneled walls and huge picture window looking out onto the inky sea could diminish his sense of being trapped. Sebastian had returned from The Supper Club, the Bodrum Peninsula's hottest nightspot, an hour earlier, drunk and angry. Unable to relax due to his escalating problems back home, his anxieties had bubbled over at the club and he'd had a furious argument with his wife, accusing her of flirting with their host. Tongue loosened by ouzo and goaded by his wife, he had blurted out that he'd slept with his new gallery assistant, a dazzling blonde recruited straight out of the Courtauld Institute. His wife had erupted like Mount St. Helens, getting it into her stupid pampered head that it was some kind of ongoing affair and had threatened him with divorce. He had pleaded with her to come back to the yacht to discuss things away from the DJ and the cocktails and eavesdropping jet set, but she had turned on her spike heels and disappeared. Frustrated, seething, he had stormed back to the boat.
Now, staring out of the window of the cabin, his head throbbed as the alcohol buzzed round his bloodstream. He looked at his watch. Three a.m. and she still hadn't returned to the yacht.
That bitch, he thought.
Sebastian stripped off his clothes, throwing them onto a leather club chair, and chopped out a line of coke on the dressing table in the hope that it would make him feel better. As soon as the white powder hit the back of his throat he knew he had made a mistake. He felt even worse.
Pulling on a white toweling bathrobe, Sebastian padded out on deck to get a hit of cold, salty, night sea air. He leaned against the waist-high rail at the aft of the yacht and rubbed his eyes. The lights of Turkbuku twinkled in the distance like tiny flickering candles. Beyond that his eyes strained to make out the heavily wooded Turkish hillside, the tall spike of a mosque's minaret. He wondered if this would be his last holiday on the big yacht with the glamorous friends. He snorted scornfully. They were friends now, but would they still want to know him when he was bankrupt? Like hell -- and he was living on borrowed time. Despite the high-profile launch parties and exhibitions of some of the world's finest fashion photographers, the Cavendish Gallery was failing, his gambling debts were mounting, and a particularly nasty North London family was chasing him for money he'd foolishly borrowed. He stood to lose everything. He had already put the Holland Park house, that stucco-fronted jewel, in his wife's name where it would be out of reach, although after tonight he was beginning to doubt that was such a good idea. Christ, he hoped she had cooled down. Sebastian hated confrontation; that was the root of his trouble. In business, in life, in love.
He pushed himself upright and picked up a glass from the table beside him, pouring in a splash of ouzo. It was time to sort his life out, he thought, throwing the drink back. The yacht was due to sail to Istanbul in the morning, he reflected. They could get off at the port and enjoy a couple of days together strolling around the exotic bazaars, walking along the Bosphorus, and try and recapture that exquisite feeling of falling madly, addictively in love.
He listened for the hum of the tender again, but the yacht was silent, the only sound the black waves lapping against the hull; a hollow, hypnotic sound, matching his sense of hopelessness.
Suddenly he turned, convinced he had heard something -- a soft flurry of footsteps on the deck, perhaps? No, just the same gentle slap of water against the boat. He was becoming paranoid. Even in London he was beginning to feel watched wherever he went. Defiantly he tossed his crystal tumbler overboard and leaned right over the railings to hear the satisfying plop as the glass fell into the sea. He didn't notice that his solid silver Asprey cigar cutter had slipped out of his pocket and landed on the deck with a quiet thud. He never would.
Early the next morning, a Turkish fisherman, sailing in the bay on his small wooden gulet, discovered a white naked body, quite dead, floating in the water, and contacted the local police immediately. About the same time, the guests of Zeus, stirring from their party sleep, were quizzing the captain about the whereabouts of one of their number. Sebastian Cavendish had rightly prophesied that it would be his last holiday on board the magnificent yacht. A Turkish inquest pronounced the incident death by accidental drowning. His wife, Karin, inherited the Holland Park mansion, a spectacular photographic collection and £5 million in life insurance.
Copyright © 2007 by Tasmina Perry
Six months later
"Doesn't she look fabulous?"
"And after everything she's been through. Still a bit pale, though, don't you think?"
"No wonder. Apparently she stayed in Kensington for Christmas."
"London? I thought I saw her in St. Barts?"
"On a yacht? No way, not after the accident. I heard she never wants to set foot on a yacht ever again."
Sipping from her flute of pink champagne, Karin Cavendish tried to ignore the whispers coming from every corner of Donna and Daniel Delemere's Eton Square ballroom. A woman of impeccable manners, she was mortified that her presence at the christening had completely upstaged her new goddaughter's big day. Her leave of absence from the social scene after the death of her husband Sebastian had only heightened Karin's considerable allure, and in the last six months she had become the subject of gossip and fascinated speculation.
Still, nothing could detract from a party like this, thought Karin. It really was impressive. The one hundred guests who had attended Evie's baptism at St. Peter's Church an hour earlier were now circulating around one of the most beautiful ballrooms in London. Forget power christening, thought Karin, popping a caviar blini on her tongue: this was more like a royal wedding. Waiters milled around with trays of bubbling Krug and delicate canapés. Filipino housekeepers were discreetly plumping up silk cushions and taking coats to the cloakroom. The net worth of the guests in this room alone must be over £10 billion, she calculated, looking at Ariel Levy, Martin Birtwell, and Evie's grandfather, Lord Alexander Delemere. She had not seen such a fine gathering of billionaires since her own wedding to Sebastian six years earlier, at the Cavendish family seat of Hopton Castle. She thought for a moment how Sebastian would have loved it. He had been so handsome and well connected, she sighed.
Backlit by a long, gilt-framed window, Karin's elegant figure was attracting discreet admiring glances from the men in the room and she tried not to smile. It had been a difficult six months, during which time Karin had thrown herself into her work and seen only the closest of friends, but now she was back on the circuit, it seemed that her new status of widow was not without its advantages. It gave her a whiff of tragedy, a veneer of respect. It removed the suggestion of predatory desires that so often accompanied a glamorous divorcée or single woman. Suddenly she was available, romantic and loaded. Not a bad place to be, thought Karin, taking in the super-rich lifestyle in front of her. Not bad at all.
"Sweetie, I'm so glad you agreed to be Evie's godmother," said Donna Delemere, approaching Karin, clutching her three-month-old daughter Evie. "I know how hard it must be for you being here today. Daniel and I appreciate it so much."
Karin leaned forward and, with an elegantly manicured finger, gingerly pulled back the voluminous folds of the Brittany lace gown covering the child.
"Oh, I was just honored to be asked. And I'm fine, really. I need to start getting back out there and what a wonderful occasion to start. It was a lovely ceremony and my goddaughter looks just beautiful."
"Isn't she pretty," smiled Donna with pride. "I want to put her in for modeling. I'm thinking Baby Dior; none of those vulgar nappy ads you see on TV. But I don't think Daniel likes the idea. Says it's too gosh."
"Gauche?" asked Karin with a small smile.
"That's the one," she said, flushing prettily. "Maybe he's right. Anyway, let's mingle."
Karin followed Donna through the crowds, nodding at acquaintances, accepting compliments and flattering looks. While many of the rumors about Karin Cavendish were fanciful or downright scandalous, one thing everyone agreed on was that Karin looked fabulous. At thirty-one, in a cherryred jersey dress that seemed to slide off her slim curves, she would be easily mistaken for a model. Her long tanned legs, full-lipped pout, and the glossy raven hair that bounced onto her shoulders, all gave her the striking appeal of a sultry yet aloof French actress. And currently there was extra sparkle in Karin's wolf-green eyes. She had just sold her five-story home in Holland Park for £12 million to a prominent Iranian businessman, downsized to a deluxe Georgian town house in Kensington, and plowed the profit into her company, Karenza, the sexiest, chicest swimwear company after Eres. Yes, there were prettier girls, there were richer girls but, looking around the party, where London's entire beau monde was sipping Krug, she knew that no...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
Book Description Book Condition: very good. 200 Gramm. Bookseller Inventory # M0000726254X-V